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ss-shitstorm · 9 months ago

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Hey sorry the next chapter of Bread is taking so long(I have a good reason I swear and that reason is I’m trying to speedrun the smut) In the meantime please accept this excerpt from my first ever participation in Kinktober(that probably won’t be ready until december at the earliest) and also the most self-indulgent shit I’ve ever written in my goddamn life.

Seraphim (working title)

Paring : Starscream/Reader, Starscream/You

Kinks : Strip clubs, Pole Dancing, Semi Public Sex, Leg/Heel Worship, Gentle Dom, Master/Student Dynamic, Drug induced sex

“Are you feeling alright?”

Asks your stage mate a stone’s throw away on his side of the holographic catwalk, half-naked protomass hugged flush against his frame as he slows to a lazy stop.

“I can’t keep my eyes on my pole and your body at the same time “A little dizzy” you say plainly, furiously chewing the quid in your tightening jaw. “My uh...my fluid pump is going kinda fast.”

“Syk will do that.” he says, loose grin splitting his face as he regards your tense, trembling frame. “That and the spark oscillations. Let your cooling fans catch up for a moment.”

That sounds like a good idea. But so does sinking to the floor, or collapsing on it, the latter a bit closer to reality than you’d like. “Alright. I’m um…gonna sit down for a sec.”

“Fortunately, we’ve a surpluses of seats.” He says, abandoning his portion of the stage and strolling over to yours. He offers his servo, far smoother and softer than you’d ever realized to pull you to your feet.

“Steady?” he asks as you take a tentative step forward.

You answer by stumbling on your arched ped, blinking not-quite in stereo.

“I suppose not.” He slings your arm over his shoulders as he hefts the majority of his weight from your frame into his. It has the (probably) unintended effect of pressing your face into his neck and your own exposed chassis against his as he walks you step by warm, blissfully unsteady step over to the front row, guiding you off the catwalk and into the frontmost seat.

Or, tries to. Said seat happens to be occupied by a stocky purple and yellow femme with squinted, bloodshot optics and lazy grin on her plastic face, making repetitive cheering motions while tossing glowstick-colored popcorn in your general direction.

“Wait.” You say as he starts setting you down, struggling not to slur over your alien bubble gum. “Someone’s in that seat.”

Airplane man blinks, looking from you, to the occupant and back. “They’re a hologram. They’ll be fine.”

“Yeah but, I still don’t want to sit on her.”

He blinks again. You grind your jaw harder, instinctively anticipating a hissyfit or long winded dump on you and your “pathetic leftover human sensibilities”.

But that’s not what you get.

What you get is a roll of his optics, pupils blown to oceanic proportions and a muffled snort under his breath as he chokes back a laugh.

“You’ve blown up cities with no remorse, and still pull the parking brake at being rude.” He says, taking the prifma from his subspace, activating it in all its ornate, infinitely complex glory. He waves it in front of the femme’s face and, once certain she’s enraptured, pitches it across the room.

She stumbles from her chair, bolting after it and giggling like a madman. You find yourself joining her, blown away by the attention to detail he’d put into this holodeck program. Even the NPC’s reliably stay in perfect, pleasantly-fucked up character as the patrons he’d based them off of.

“I had some remorse.” you say as he sets you down in the seat, non-linear headspace dangling the thread from earlier irresistibly in your peripheral. “About the city, I mean. I didn’t really want to do that.”

“I’m sure at least part of you did.” He answers with a knowing sneer that barely qualifies as a facial expression. “But that wasn’t intended to be an insult. I simply found the juxtaposition of those attitudes amusing.”

“I didn’t take it as one.” You bite down on your lip by sheer accident, and not because the tips of his digits as they release your arms send the most sublime wave of goosebumps cresting over your protomass. “And you’re right. I did kinda like doing it. Not because I wanted anyone hurt though.”

“Simply because you enjoy blowing scrap sky-high?” he asks with a probably unintentional purr.

“Yeah.” You swallow at nothing, suddenly very aware of how dry your intake has become. “Ah, crap. I should probably go get some coolant.”

“Good idea. Do you remember where the dispensary stations are located-wait.” His optics flash as he sinks down to his knees, reaching into his subspace to withdraw a handful of disposable coolant packets, before offering them to you. “Stay seated, my little apprentice. I’ve got you.”

Were you capable of producing tears in this state, you’d surely be crying. “You….you’re a god.” You croak, taking the handful and ripping the top off of the first one.

“And you’re an exceptional worshiper.” He winks, straightening and getting to his peds. “In fact, stay put and I’ll give you reason to be truly devout.”

“Mmmph.” Is your poignant reply, covertly spitting the quid out to jam the packet’s straw into your intake. Your denta might suffer for it later, but right now you’re thirsty, and your jaw is *exhausted*. “You what now?”

Something warm, satisfied as a cat that’d claimed a mouse washes over his face. A look like he’d been waiting for this precise moment his entire life as he strides towards the pole you’d abandoned, casting a sly smirk at you from over his shoulder.

“Allow me to show you how I got my stage name.”

Starcream, or, “Sykness”, as he’d revealed earlier, taps his audial, likely altering the holodeck parameters in a way you still don’t understand how to do yet. After a moment, and clearly satisfied, he steps forward, raising a servo to snap his fingers.

The lights dim, the ambient electrohouse music softens to a nigh-inaudible level.-, the track taking it’s place jogging a very human part of your memory. Your brow furrows in contemplation, chewing the straw on your cybertronian Capri-sun as your brain scrambles to place these famous first few notes into their respective cubby holes. You know this. C’mon think. Think.

Definition remains elusive even as it dawns, casting shadows and early sunlight over that meandering, out of place electric guitar riff. The thick, wet kick drum that starts just a moment too early. That melodic, haunting voice layered over aimless, choir-like vocals.

He steps forward, placing a servo on his hip, wrapping the other around the pole as he keels forward into a reverent bow, waiting for the true melody to start. How fitting it is, you think, that a being bowing to no worldly power allows music alone to bend his knee.

“Life is a mystery

Everyone must stand alone-”

How also fitting, you also think, that he’d choose a human song sharing the thematic nuance of the substance coursing through both your veins. Though the “Are you fucking kidding me” stays wedged behind your denta as he tilts his helm upward, reaching the servo from his hip toward the stars as a pharisaic priest calls upon his god.

“-I hear you call my name

And it feels like-

Home.”

The scattered percussion solidifies into a drumline, moving his hips for him as he he lowers his servo. He clutches it to his throat before drawing the digits down his face, savoring the theatrics until the tempo demands his full compliance. Which it does, as a drum and bass enhanced version of Madonna’s 12’ inch Like a Prayer club mix slides into its first chorus, while he slides into a splayed V at the base of the pole, sinfully sharpened legs spread towards your line of vision like a runway.

“When you call my name

It’s like a little prayer

I’m down on my knees

I wanna take you there.”

He bends them at the knees, backwards until the tips of his heels barely graze the top of his aft, before swinging the right one over the left, sprawling onto his back and reaching one arm horizontally beyond his head, drawing the other down his cleavage and chassis.

“In the midnight hour

I can feel your power

Jut like a prayer

I wanna take you there.”

Rolling to his side he faces you, sliding his servo down the length of his topmost leg as he raises it up. Up until the tip of his ped kisses the top of his helm, before swinging at the knee to place it flat on the floor, digits trailing along his thighs and aft as he pulls himself into a catlike crouch at the base of the pole.

“I hear your voice

It’s like an angel sighing

I have no choice I hear your voice,

Feels like flying.”

Fly he does, reaching both servos behind his back to wrap around the pole, pulling himself to his feet before hooking his heel and calf around the base and gliding in a half-moon circle until his lithe, winged back now faces you.

“I close my eyes

Oh god I think I’m falling

Out of the sky I close my eyes

Heaven help me-!”

In a feat of limber blasphemy that would make serpents weep, he holds the entirety of his weight in his servos while swinging his lower body forward and up. Knotting his peds at the top of the pole once there to hang upside down, frame held in the downward swoop of a diving falcon.

“When you call my name

It’s like a little prayer

I’m down on my knees

I wanna take you there.”

You’re certainly taken somewhere as he spins around once more to face you, weight balanced on a single leg as his second stretches out to meet his lifted arm in a sharp point. The other servo used to draw trails up the biolights peppering his sides, chassis, and throat before reaching towards you in a “come hither” gesture.

“In the midnight hour

I can feel your power

Just like a prayer

I wanna take you there.”

He circles round, leg akimbo before allowing both to fall to the floor. Kneeling at the pole, curving his back into a C as he transitions to all fours backwards. His chin tilts to the ceiling, optics half-lidded while bracing his digits on the stage, bending one leg up to his chassis and lifting the other pointedly in the air. The second joins it with a sharp kick, both dangling in a loose Y like silk strands in the breeze.

“Like a child

You whisper softly to me

You’re in control,

Just like a child

Now I’m dancing.”

With a cock of his helm, he pushes himself up and back on both servos, throwing both legs backwards, planting his heels on the stage before you and rolling to his feet, granting you full view of his tight, perfect aft while gliding his digits up along his calves and thighs.

“It’s like a dream

No end and no beginning

You’re here with me

Its like a dream

Let the choir sing!”

Straightening his frame to perch flamingo-like on one leg, he reaches one servo above his head, the other sailing from the curve of his waist out to his suspended knee, before flicking both forward, hitting the floor in a roundhouse spin that takes him back to the pole. Back and wings grind flush against the metal as he dips his aft towards the floor, one clawed servo woven between his legs to grip his panel. The other cups his chin so he can bite into his index digit, catching and holding your gaze with those smoldering vermilion searchlights.

“When you call my name

It’s like a little prayer

I’m down on my knees

I wanna take you there.”

He slides into a split, before rolling onto his back to push himself backwards-upright with his palms into a profile view, rhythmically rolling his hips into thin air. He kicks his leg up once, more, hooking it around the pole to sweep the rest of him in a slow circle, springing forward to grip it and pull himself straight.

“In the midnight hour

I can feel your power

Just like a prayer

You know I’ll take you there”

He hugs the pole, cradling the metal between the plush of his exposed chassis, before jutting his frame away. Throwing his helm back and pelvis forward, he thrusts his hips in a continuous, undulating wave, all the while flashing you looks from the corners of his optics and lightning-fast-denta-barring smirks.

“Just like a prayer

Your voice can take me there

Just like, a muse to me

You are a mystery-“

Alien amphetamines or no, you’re very much drugged. Captivated like a cobra frozen by a tamer’s flute. Though his song is one sung in movement, in the serene, frenzied picture his artful limbs paint on the present moment. A moment, which, while existing only within the borders of now, has no end or beginning. Time has stopped for the two of you, and now that it has, you’re made to realize it had no claim over either to begin with.

This mech isn’t just extraterrestrial. He’s extradimensional. The fairy king that’s brought you to the forested threshold of his world. The demon smothering coals made for sinner’s feet to walk you barefoot and painless into hell. The seraphim whispering through the jumbled flesh poetry your mind provides, filtering raw intent and cognition through the labyrinthine filter your bodied consciousness relies on. “Heaven exists.” The angel tells you. “And you’re living in it.”

You believe him, because he’d blessed both bread and wine and handfed them through your parched lips. Because he extended the molecular invitation that led you to and through the doors of perception. Because that’s exactly what beings made of bent light and stardust do, and that’s exactly what he is.

He’s a fucking angel.

“-Just like a dream

You are not what you seem

Just like a prayer

No choice your voice can take me there~”

One that’s making love to himself on that pole so you can watch. So you can be a part of it. Partner in this divine act on the celestial stage that exists only in the gap of your shared awareness.

You’d be content to dissolve into this awareness, this universal heartbeat owed to all by birthright yet obscured by the task of surviving. It’s the first you’ve tasted in *either* life you’d lived, and you’d known not how you hungered for it till it touched your lips.

“Your voice can take me there-”

But your soul cries for something more pressing, more primal. A deeper desire than the one to dive into and drink from this fountain. Behind your slaked thirst grows something far more earthbound but no less urgent around the branches of your heart. Something highlighted by the wicked, nubile body of this Enochian being twisting into shadows before you. By the legs that could lace ribbons ‘round your neck as easily as snap it in half. By the wings that could drop you from the stratosphere as well as shelter you from the sun.

By the arm’s-length distance and thin metal plating separating you from his array, which you’re trying very hard to not think about as stretches into a bird of paradise pose as his finishing move.

“-Like a prayer.”

He slides down to the base, righting himself into a crouch and finally a sit, but not before lassoing a leg to hook around your neck. He pulls you flush against his torso while slinging the other leg around your back, barricading you against his frame.

“You seemed to enjoy that more than I did.” He says, roping an arm around your shoulders as his leg slides down to the curve of your waist. “And I really, really enjoyed that.”

Of course he noticed that. Even despite his natural ability to read everyone within a five-mile radius like a book, he was watching you watch him the entire time. That, and he knows you. Sussed out every last one of your objectives before you even knew them time and time again. That, coupled with the empathic bond you currently share, and metric fuckton of emotional vomit you’d heaved into each other’s laps only an hour or so ago, breaking the barricades down between your naked hearts leads you to a conclusion. The frightening, nauseatingly-thrilling conclusion that he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

And what you’re thinking, you realize with dawning horror subverted to euphoria, is that he’s extremely fucking attractive.

He's hot. Brain-rewiring-hot. Hot beyond anything you or any member of your prior species conceptualized as attractive before. Renaissance painters covered faces of the divine in flesh, only because they knew not what the hands of God could mold from metal.

“I d-did.” You say with a stuttering hiss, his talons tracing the fringe of your wings. “I couldn’t look away if I wanted to.”

“Tell me you didn’t want to.”

“I didn’t.” You ex-vent shakily, nervousness and insecurity foreign concepts as a half-knowing smile spreads over your lips. “And you know damn well I didn’t.”

He laughs, high and pearly you can feel through his bare chassis as he pulls you closer, talons creeping up your spinal strut and sending pleasant goosebumps or the cybertronian version thereof bubbling along your protoform. “Reassurance is always appreciated. Especially from another seeker.”

Right. Robot god retroactively corrected his mistake by rebirthing you as the same breed of creature holding your attention and adrenal glands hostage. Except you’re not. No one is. No one comes close to replicating this supernova condensed into living metal, whose lap you’re currently sitting in. And that’s fine, because you didn’t come here to replicate a dying star, you came here to get lost within them.

An objective you’ve accomplished, upon summoning the courage and stupidity required to look into the sun. Those optics, those impish, mischievous, so very lucid and other optics even with the pupils blown and obscuring, they’re red like a sunset. That brilliant glow coaxing long shadows from the trees and canyons with their warm last strains of light. They offer the promise of further mystery, of the comforting cowl of night for those allergic to the sun to dance within.

He’s not the end of the light. Merely the beginning of darkness.

Perhaps, beyond the loving caress of true death, the gentlest darkness you’ll ever know.

“I might’ve told you this before, back when you were still entombed in that flesh prison-“ he begins, voice liquid velvet against your audials. “But I don’t want to end the night without telling you exactly how engaging I find that brilliant little mind of yours.”

He did tell you, didn’t he? He’d also told you, after testing a facefull of the product he’d conned you into making, that said flesh prison was the only reason he didn’t bend you over the counter and fuck you until your pelvis broke.

“I…thanks. You’re also attractive in the brain, and…um…everywhere else.” You say, fluid pump thrashing uncomfortably fast in your chassis and beneath his servo, which now hovers between your exposed cleavage. He can feel that. He can feel how worked up you are and there’s nothing you can do about it. “But…yeah…I think you said something like ‘Primus help me if you were cybertronian, let alone a flyer.’”

“Oh my. “ He smirks, drawing a talon beneath your chin. “You remember that verbatim?”

“Kinda hard to not.” You say around your stuttering spark. ”It’s not every day someone tells you they like you for YOU that much.”

"A shame. You ought to surround yourself with those who know you better.“

He’s laying on the compliments pretty thickly. And touching you pretty much everywhere he can without touching you *too* much. And while both of those things are absolutely facilitated by the party favor blasting insecurity and unneeded boundaries to bits, you can’t dismiss the possibility he’s hung out to dry in the air between you. Because that possibility is starting to sound like something you’d *very* much like to make reality.

“Since I um… y’know…became both of those things- “you start, squaring up to shoot your shot, venting hitched in please god please even with the bullseye inches from the barrel of your gun. “-what now?”

“Now?-” he says, tilting his helm towards yours, an undefinable something burning like distant stars in his optics as he leans in, lips grazing the very shell of your audial as he whispers:

“-Primus help me.”

You’re not sure who starts it. Maybe neither of you do. Maybe both. Maybe that matters less than the smell of ozone and residual coolant smothered by the taste of a foreign glossa on yours, because Starscream is fucking kissing you.

You’ve been kissed before. You’ve been kissed by metal titans before, prior to becoming one yourself. This is fact, painful and brilliant carved upon your spark. But neither fact nor scar holds any power over the present moment, because all that you are is screaming you’ve never felt like this. Not with every sensor in your frame lighting up like a firework at the ghost of his touch, the whisper of his lips against yours before he fully finds them. The electric zeal as they claim yours fully, neither asking nor demanding entrance to your intake that you give all the same because not listening, not giving, in not deepening this kiss and letting his glossa pins yours down isn’t possible.

This is surrender, some part of you thinks. This is what it feels like to die, once you’ve thrown up your arms and given your life up for lost. The comfort that swaddles you once you’ve stepped beyond, the placid anticipation of what comes next. And what comes next is whatever your reaper decides, because you’d handed him the reigns of this pale horse before ever donning your bridle.

He breaks the kiss, smooth venting uncharacteristically harried as he pulls his lips away only to bite them.

“I’ll take your reciprocation as enthusiastic consent-” he begins, optics searching yours for the tattered remains of hesitancy. “- unless you desire otherwise?”

You desire nothing other than swift and immediate continuation of where you left off. While normal, sober (y/n) might be too nervous to articulate that, Syk! (y/n) isn’t leashed by so useless an emotion. And nervous energy without fear is simply another word for exhilaration.

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t. I mean...” you shutter your optics, blowing out a breath. “This is fine. I like this.”

“Would you like to go further?”

You exhale sharply. This time, it’s you that reaches for his face, you that cups his chin in your servo, you that tilts his face up to yours.

“I’ll go as far as you let me.”

He blinks, taken by surprise, not aback by your boldness. It’s a vulnerable half second he hangs within your touch, before laughter erupts from his intake. At once rumbling and yet airy as he shakes his helm from your grasp.

“You’ve yet to interface at all in that body. Do you really want your first time to be while you’re this altered? While we’re gliding?”

“I know I want it to be with you.”

His optics widen, in-venting with a sharp hiss. This is only the second time you’ve caught him off guard tonight but it’s not going to be the last. Because the only thing more attractive than sassy, confident Starscream is reeling-from-raw-and-euphoric-truth Starscream.

“I...I’m not going to pretend this doesn’t sound appealing right now.” He says, a tinge of caution to his carefree tone. “But Syk... its going to set a standard. An impossible one. Nothing you do after this is going to feel the same. So I’ll ask you one more time-” he rears back, laying both servos on your shoulders “Are. You. Certain?”

That’s a good question. For literally anyone other than you, because you already know the answer. You’ve got very little to lose, other than this new body’s virginity. Hopefully to this chemically-induced non-asshole version of Airplane man, if you can scrape enough braincells together to tell him so.

While you’re scraping just that, you give his query some space from your spark and genitals you still aren’t totally certain how to use yet. Even with that space, you can’t find a reason to *not* get your seal ruptured and back blown out in a perfect replication of the nightclub your ex’s ex used to manage, complete with music and strung out NPCs. A handful of which a re literally cheering the two of you on and making obscene hand gestures.

The stars had already aligned once to bring you two back into each other’s lives. You’re not waiting till mercury falls into retrograde to for another chance to fuck this up.

“You are an impossible standard, and you know you are.” you tell him through gritted denta. “Sober or not, if we frag you’re gonna ruin me for anyone else. So go ahead-” you reach for his servos, plucking them from your shoulders and planting them firmly on your hips. “-and fucking ruin me.”

Starscream inhales sharply. Then jerks forward sharply. Then grabs your waist, pulls it against his and crashes his lips against yours once more sharply.

Softly, you yelp in surprise. Softly you melt into it, losing a fluttery moan as his servo slides down to the small of your back, holding you steady even while he pushes you down onto the stage. Quite loudly you whine as his other hand finds the base of your left wing, pinching them betwixt his thumb and index digit.

Erogenous zones in a truly alien bit of anatomy flare to life like a litebrite set, twinkling in a magically mundane fashion at the edges of your nervous system. It’s something like lips, nape of your neck, and inner thigh all twined into one nerve cluster wet nightmare, one that has you hooking your legs around his hips and squealing against his mouth as he dips you into the floor.

The squealing again, this time in pain as your flared right wing crimps miserably against the floor. Airplane man, to his credit immediately pulls your frame up off the floor and back against his body.

“Fold them in, my dear.” he says, breaking away from your lips to reach for the wing you’d nearly sat on, tucking it in against your frame. “It’s worth the extra effort, believe me.”

You, reeling both from the endorphins still crashing through your veins and from the visceral reminder you’re not at all used to this *new* prison for your soul, need a moment to form words. “I...okay.” you exhale, folding what rightfully feels like an extra, lightweight leg sutured into your back up and against it. “Is there...uh...anything else I should know about this uh, frame?”

“I’ll tell you as we go.” He rears back, optics softening even as they narrow. “I’m going to level with you, I’ll be getting a bit bossy. There’s simply no part of me that enjoys being subdued, I’m afraid. Primus knows I get enough of that treatment *outside* the berthroom.” He works his jaw for a moment, though wither that’s from less-than-fond memories or the quid he’d discarded prematurely, you’re not sure. Is...is that going to be a problem?”

If it is going to be a problem, it’s going to be your problem, because there’s no way in hell you’re backing out now. “I can do either.” You say with absolute sincerity, all too eager to pass your whip and chains to his hands. “Just gimme a safeword, and we’re good.”

The silken, serene smile returns to his flawless face. ��Right then. What’s the name of that organic spice you used to make this sojourn possible?”

You squint your optics in thought, thinking back to the agonizing lab session literally less than 24 hours ago. “Pepper?”

“Then it’s pepper.” he cocks his helm. “I trust you know how to use it?”

“Yeah. I’m good.”

“Very well.” He pauses in thought for a moment, though only a moment, before that sweet grin takes a subtly capricious flavor. He detangles himself from you, rising to his peds only to step over your delightfully disheveled form, trapping you between his perfect legs. “I noticed you noticing these-” he runs both servos up his silver calves and thighs “-a fair bit more than the rest of me. Why don’t you start paying your tithes there, and this deity will make it worth your while?”

Honestly the payment sounds equal to or better than the eternal reward. But you don’t tell him that as you lower yourself to the floor in a reverent bow and press your mouth to the hollow of his ankle, plying the not-quite-entirely-solid metal between your lips. Then, when met with no resistance, sliding your glossa out and making long, urgent strokes beneath he ball of his ped.

Your god shudders, wincing pleasantly as he leans his weight back into the pole. “Oh my. Getting right down to business, are we? Not a shred of disobedience in you?”

“Nah.” you lift your helm to plant a kiss on the tip of his stiletto, before drawing your lips up to his calf, oh-so-carefully pinching the metal between your denta. The texture of either so vibrant tears nearly spring to your optics. How is he real. How. “Are you gonna punish me for being *too* good?”

“I’d be an awfully inconsiderate master to do that.” he gives a low hiss, then a not-so-subtle jerk of his hips, indicating his thighs are trying to clamp shut. “Unless that’s something you’re interested in?”

You take a moment to respond, preoccupied with nipping at the protomass exposed near the top of his legs. God the way his plating comes together makes them look like thigh-highs Wicked, steel, razor-sharp thigh highs. “Not especially.

“Then we’ll do the opposite.” he says, peering down at you, placing a reassuring servo atop your helm. “You’re doing an immaculate job, darling.”

At “darling” you find your thighs involuntarily clenching together, because of course.

Of course this dude’s into dolling out the praise he’s personally starved for. Of course *uplifting* those around him as apposed to grinding them into the carpet gets him going harder while he’s gliding. Of course he just introduced a sweet, gentle dominatrix fetish you didn’t know you needed in your kink catalog.

You loose a muffled growl against metal flesh, painfully aware of not only a throbbing ache between your legs, but also an uncomfortable pressure further towards the front. Jesus this is gonna take some getting used to.

“Oh frag.” he murmurs, optics half shuttered as you shift your weight to your knees, straightening to cup his ankle and ped in your palm as you press your lips to the back of his knee. He sinks further back against the pole, leaning his weight into the other leg. “Vector-fraggin’-sigma you’re good at this.”

You’re beginning to wonder if seeker legs serve as sexual soft spots the way wings do, or if that’s literally just a Starscream thing. Either way, the face he wears as you make sweet oral love to his struts is enough to throw you over the edge on your own. Or would be, if you could keep dry humping the floor. But a few precious inches further up in absolute territory is all that separates you from the panels covering his array, which at once weeps tears of shimmering lubricant through the metal and bows out in the front. The more malleable metal thinly veiling what in no uncertain terms is going to split you in half later.

Sinking your weight into your own peds, you raise yourself off the ground, making your way towards both of those things. Only for your vision to be obscured by splayed digits as he covers your face with a servo, pushing your helm away.

“Oh no, not yet. You stay down, my dear.” he purrs despite the hitch in his breath, eyeing you like a beloved cat trying to climb his leg.

Much like a cherished feline, you make a face as though you’ve been kicked across the room instead of gently reprimanded. “Okay.... How do I get to your valve or spike, then?”

“Hmmm. Good question.” he says, righting himself to stare contemplatively into the distance. And doing little more, loose smile still plastered on his face as he regards thin air with pleasant ambiguity. Even experienced dominatrixes have issues chasing the next command when rolling their tits off, you suppose.

Though he might be a bit further gone than that. After a few more moments of nothing but the confusing primal scream of your new genitals, you rap softly on his hip. “Hey, uh, my next command, master?”

“Oh scrap, right.” he startles, blinking not quite in stereo. “I was trying to calculate and...ah, hang on a moment.” He narrows his optics at the ceiling. ”How long ago did we start gliding?”

“Well…it kicked in right when we came in here.” you say, struggling with your own fractured memory. “And we were dancing together for a while before you started dancing. And you dragged me over to the mirror to”-turn me on with my own body you altruistic narcissist-“ make me feel better. And we were talking for a really long time before that, so maybe…two hour-“

“Ah ah ha. “He cuts you off with an index digit placed against your lips and a yeilding, good-natured sneer. “In cybertronian..”

You choke over your stuttering spark, because surprise surprise, that grammatical correction just turns you on even more. Stop trying to acclimate me sky daddy. “….A cycle?”

His optics flit towards the ceiling, chewing his lip in thought. “Ah. Well, that puts us at about the halfway mark, when our experience would begin to taper off and pull us molecule by molecule out of the Allspark. The operative word here being ‘would’.” He dips a servo into his subspace, emerging with a packet of dusky-blue granules that seem to pulse faintly in time with the bass in the background.

You raise an optical ridge, both the color and reactive properties recalling a skeleton you’d only partially memorized. “Is that…is that Nucleon-”

“-Nail in freebase form?” he finishes for you. “Yes actually, the very same you made for me. I salted it out of the injector this morning. Good job, by the way. Not that I expected anything less. It’s also our extended-stay pass to this neurochemical sanctuary. It’ll extended our glide for another cycle and a half, before hailing us in for a *much* smoother landing than without.”

“If it’s not in the injector...How do we take it?”

“Insufflated.”

Like you’d watched Knockout do with the circuit speeder. How delightfully trashy. “Do we need like…a mirror? Or a razorblade? Or like…a straw or something?”

With an expression you clock in at about 15 million degrees C, he laughs. “Oh no. We need only once another for this. And since you’ve been such a good pet, you’re going first.”

Gritting your denta worryingly tight and probably also the inside of your cheek, you watch as he retracts the front half of his array panel, allowing his spike to spring free. It bobs slightly, catching refractive light from the many mirrors, lasers and visualizers. With human eyes, you might’ve had a stroke trying to comprehend exactly what you’re looking at. Without them, you still might be having a stroke, with the deep carnelian and acid yellow biolights and nodes peppering the sides, the tip itself a dimly glowing ember in the relative darkness.

Syk nonwithstanding, it might be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen in your life. But *with* the Syk, burning light trails and tracers into the peripheral of your optics, you’re quite certain this is some sort of holy relic.

Venting rapidly, your priest kneels at your side, leaving you to watch stupefied as he spreads a generous bump’s worth of powder on the shaft near the base. He then grips the back of your helm, gently guiding you towards your sacrament. “Go ahead darling. You’ve earned it.”

Whelp. You didn’t exactly sign up for this when you agreed to manufacture illicit robot pharmaceuticals, but you also didn’t give your signature for anything else that’s happened. And the *anything else*, thus far, has been the most spontaneous, most fun, most healing night of your goddamn life. In for a penny, in for a glitch switch, I guess.

With herculean willpower to not simply wrap your intake around the head, you dutifully obey, hold one of your nostrils shut, using the other to clean the powder off of his cock.

It burns. Not terribly so, but enough to make you gasp, and your optics water. Panting and sniveling, you try once more to get to your feet only to be held down by one of Airplane man’s savagely sharp ones.

“Not quite yet. Give it time to hit, and once it does, stay put until the room stops spinning. Then you can get up.”

If the sight of his swollen, glowing dick inches from your face isn’t enough to make you cream your jeans, then the pressure of his heels against the back of your head might just be. “How long? For it to kick in, I mean.”

“Likely just long enough for my turn.” he says, dangling the baggie as an afterthought. “Lie down and roll over, my dear.”

You do precisely that, sinking down to the floor once more as a dull, chemical taste seeps into the back of your mouth. “Am I supposed to spit this out, or-?”

“If you please. It’ll be slightly easier on your filters.” He extends a talon to draw a circular gesture in the air. “Face down, aft up in the air, please.”

Growling under your breath, you do exactly that, burying your face in your folded arms while your legs strain to heft your ass upright. There’s a half-second delay between the order to move your limbs and their actual movement that’s making this simple command a fair bit more complex. Maneuvering yourself isn’t impossible, but it does take more concentration than you remember. As does keeping yourself in place as the floor and ceiling begin to undulate like a waterbed, or surfboard over choppy water.

Though that’s not what’s taking up the majority of your inebriated attention. No, that’s Starscream holding your hip with one servo, using the other to scatter powder onto the exposed protomass of your ass.

“Primus blessed, you are a marvel, you know that?” he purrs, closing the bag and slipping it back into storage.

Even with your face partially obscured, you struggle to tear your eyes away from his exposed chassis, slutty little waist and noxiously gorgeous spike bouncing in plain sight through the window of your legs. “I’m...I’m starting to believe it.”

He gives a deep chuckle, one that rolls through the hollow where your bones would be. Though it’s drowned out by the squeal you give as he digs his talons into the meat of your aft. Just fucking fucking wreck me already.

He lowers his helm, and you can feel both the hot air from his intake as he vacuums the powder off your ass and a second, unholy wave of “oh god fuck me *yes* washing over you like a tsunami. The nail must be kicking in. Though unlike the Syk, it carries with it a sort of benevolent aggression. You still want to dance, let the bass possess and move your body for you. Still want to get fucking railed by the saint that provided you with both, but you’ve less qualms insisting about either. You’re in a position to *demand* cuddle puddles, *demand* those puddles turn into a fuck castle. And if it doesn’t, that’s fine and well. Everyone’s gotta be on the same page about this, of course.

But long, arylcyclohexylamine derivatives aside, you’ve very little issue asking for the debauchery you desire.

“Oh god.” you bite into your servo, smothering a full blown whore moan. “God I need your dick in me so bad-!”

“Spike, my dear.” Corrects your deity. “And you haven’t even taken yours out yet.”

That’s a good point. One that’d be easier to illustrate if you knew how to do that. “Where’s my dick?” you whimper, fumbling blindly around the vicinity of your crotch.

Starscream looks at you with the genuine compassion one would have for a neutered companion animal. “Oh, you are adorable.” he crooks his finger, ushering you forward. “A bit closer, and I’ll be happy to show you-oh frag.”

His optics widen, helm tilting downward as the Nail presumably barges into his system with a battering ram and war cry. He leans his back into the pole, sliding towards the floor. “Oh my. Oh yes. Oh frag me yes this is fragging perfect-!”

His helm lolls back for a second, chassis slowly heaving as his nervous systems finds it’s feet in this neurochemical balancing act. You watch his gorgeous face melt into a caricature of pure bliss, before sliding those sunset-red, newly hungry optics over to you, flitting from your face, the juncture of your bodies, to his spike, still twitching viciously erect in the velvet in the air between you.

“Still want me to show you around your array, pet?” he hooks an arm under your leg, both to pull you against him and dip his talons into the seam between your inner thigh and valve panel.

The tips of his talons send cold lightning bursting through the outer lips of your pussy and well up into your belly. You gasp, choking back, then on a whine as it escapes your lips. “Yes. Please please please yes.”

“And you seem awfully intent on attending to this.” he says, retracting the razor-sharp plating of his claws to expose smooth, slender, probably extraordinarily dexterous fingers to cradle the length of his cock, pumping them in a slow, languid motion.

“I might actually die if you don’t let me put that thing in my mouth.” you say without a shred of sarcasm, being terminally deficient in a form of vitamin d the sun can’t possibly provide.

His lip curls into a smirk, exposing a sliver of perfect denta as he slides forward. “Well, we don’t want that happening again, do we? So by all means-” he draws his free servo up your leg to your inner thigh, slipping those smooth, blunted fingers into the dripping seams of your panel to not just retract them, but sink *into* the freshly exposed, soaking wet folds of your pussy. All the while clutching the back of your helm, pulling your face down flush with the weeping head of his spike.

“-Go ahead, my dear.”

#Cybertronian/post human reader #smidge of calculated OOCness due to substance use #You know what? Fuck you. *unproblematics your fave w robot rave drugs*#Syk! Starscream is basically SG Starscream what have I done #Substance use #NOT abuse #Starscream knows what he's doing and is keeping BOTH y'all safe #Starscream/reader #Reader/Starscream #You/Starscream #Starscream/you #2nd person Pov #Pov second person #pinned post #to pin at some point

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redtail-lol · 6 months ago

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As a One Piece fan, one of the biggest, most widespread issues in one piece's fanbase is the total inability to accept criticism of One Piece. Any attempt to criticize the series is met with a defense for why it's actually okay. When it's a menial annoyance, it doesn't need to be defended! Just let people be annoyed with this little detail for fucks sake. We're not trying to ruin your enjoyment of the whole series because Vivi and Robin's faces going from completely distinct from one another in Alabasta to being indistinguishable from Nami's post timeskip is a strange art flaw. There's no good reason and there doesn't need to be either. It's just pointing out a minor flaw in a series, because it isn't perfect. When it's an objectively bad thing like racist character design or whitewashing... You don't actually help make One Piece appear like it isn't racist. You look like you're okay with racism, and when a large chunk of the fanbase is constantly dismissing, denying, and excusing racism, it reflects poorly on the series. And your attempts to defend the series just makes the fandom space more hostile for fans of color.

I had a discussion the other night with my best friend (and ex) who got me into the series. She was the one defending against menial issues I had and inspired the post. She kinda explained that, especially on Twitter, avid haters of One Piece use even the most menial of details to treat the series as completely irredeemable and harass fans online. But I don't think that's a good enough reason for the fanbase to go far into the opposite direction and refuse to interact with the series critically. To always come up with a reason why it's actually okay. Treating the series as flawless. One Piece fans need to reasses their critical thinking skills and learn how to distinguish lighthearted criticism and genuine important critical analysis from hate that directly attacks fans of the series and of characters

One Piece is problematic media, and I say that as a fan of the anime. It reflects a lot of the prejudices and issues within Japan's culture and wider East Asian cultures (which, before you say it, are often shared by western cultures and American culture too, I know) and when watching it, I think you should be aware that some of the things in it are bad. There are really good things in One Piece! It has a good message about friendship and found family, about your dreams and will, and the emotional beats can land so well. It's not fundamentally bad and it's not irredeemable, but you should engage with it critically. Recognize that Toei, if not Oda himself, designs antagonists to have darker complexions than the heroes because of colorism, and that's bad. Recognize that Usopp's design is racist. Recognize that the whitewashing of characters Toei previously colored darker (while villain Blackbeard never changed) is because of colorist biases. It's okay - good, actually - to recognize when something presented in media you enjoy is bad, and even if you continue to enjoy the media, still understand that aspects of it are bad.

Recognize menial things you dislike too! I have menial things I dislike about the series and complain about to my friend. I've already mentioned the women ending up with same face syndrome. Another thing I hate is, in the English Funimation dub, Eric Vale puts on the most gratingly obnoxious hammy voice whenever Sanji goes into his gimmick. It's not a serious issue but it annoys me and that's okay! It's good to enjoy things as a whole even if you don't like aspects of it. It's just a good exercise in learning how to engage with things that you don't like 100% and engage with media critically. Because it's gonna be hard to find value in important things and hurt your media literacy if you won't engage with anything that has aspects you dislike or don't agree with, and be just as bad if you condition yourself to accept every aspect of media you like unquestioningly. It is important to allow yourself and others to just be a little hater about things that annoy you.

The push from One Piece fans to never criticize the series is literally just as bad as the haters calling it irredeemable because there's too much cleavage. The friend I mentioned earlier? Her favorite character is Sanji because of his emotional depth. But she really dislikes the way Toei handled his character in comparison to the manga, way overdoing his gimmick and taking away character moments to put the spotlight onto Zoro. Saying this on twitter got her called slurs and sent threats by rabid fans that couldn't understand the difference between "I like this character and it hurts to see him mishandled by the anime studio" and "I hate this character and if you like him, then you're a bad person!" So while I understand how reactiveness to criticism can be a result of rampant hate, it's no excuse when you're just as toxic. And both are equally a threat to media literacy - consuming problematic media critically is a good thing. The haters are bad because they think you shouldn't ever comsume anything problematic ever. That's bad for your critical thinking skills and ability to separate good elements and lessons from things that have bad elements and lessons. But the fans are also bad because they think you should consume problematic media unquestioningly, uncritically, and accept everything within it as morally correct. Which is such a bad outlook to have on a series that has such clear influences of racism and colorism! That can be genuinely dangerous. Like jesus fuck.

And on a less important point, the push against any criticism also makes it hard to watch for me. I get tempted to drop the anime entirely when I'm told that it's not okay to dislike elements of it, or openly criticize things that bug me. When I feel pressured to accept things I dislike to accept the show, I want to reject the show for the sake of rejecting those elements. When I'm allowed to just say "wow I don't like that" it feels better. Like I've acknowledged the thing I don't like now, so it doesn't have to keep being such a bother. For example, Usopp's design having the donut lips was a big bother to me when he was first introduced. The ability to be critical of that aspect of the anime is the reason I can still watch the show and even enjoy Usopp as a character when he's given his good moments - because I'm not forced to be okay with something I'm not okay with! The push to be okay with it when I've listened to many black people talk about how donut lips are racist and mock them just makes me want to drop it entirely because I refuse to compromise my beliefs and pretend One Piece is perfect. "Just enjoy it and don't be so judgy!" No!!! This aspect is bad!! I can try my best to enjoy the series but I'm never gonna enjoy this aspect and I want to be able to vocally reject it and criticize it. If I can't do that, if I have to accept this thing I object to as an okay thing, I won't do that.

I don't think this pushback is just individuals. It's very widespread within the fandom. I see it on youtube and though I don't have twitter, my friend's testimony is enough to say it's definitely like that over there as well. Tumblr seems to be a bit better about it, but still. So if you find yourself guilty of this, I don't think you're a bad person (unless you sent someone threats and called them slurs like my friend was, obviously). My best friend was guilty too, because it's just a contagious attitude worsened by the opposition and enforced by the fandom that already has it.

Also, my friend and I did have a good discussion. It started with me nitpicking same face syndrome that develops later in the anime (while where I am now, Vivi, Nami, and Robin all had distinct features from each other, particularly in eye shape, that made them distinct from each other even if you color them all with Nami's hair color), and with her giving me reasons why it's fine actually. Then it became a discussion about how being on twitter between the extremes of the fans who won't accept critique and the haters who misconstrue characters and tell fans they're pieces of shit for enjoying the series or a character, did shape her to be more defensive when I'd give the same menial criticism. It was always respectful of one another because we're both smart and we both care about each other too much to let fictional anime pirates tear us apart. She understood what I was saying, when I explained that I should just be allowed to give meaningless critique sometimes because it makes it stop bothering me as badly when I've acknowledged it, and that I'm clearly not the kind of person who's using it as a way to say OP is entirely bad. And I'd also explained that some of my own comments weren't towards her but in general towards other fans since I'd seen so many people excusing the whitewashing of Usopp. It wasn't a heated argument or anything of the sort so please nobody comment bad things about my friend.

TL;DR Consuming problematic media critically good, refusing to consume or engage critically with problematic media are both bad outlooks, and the one piece fandom has major issues with trying to shut down any and all criticism of the series. One Piece is not above criticism and it is a very flawed piece of media. Engaging critically with it and allowing others to do the same while still enjoying it is necessary. Twitter is toxic. Hit post.

#one piece #op #one piece discussion #one piece discourse #one piece critical #toxic fandoms #problematic media #one piece fandom #let people criticize things #I'm dead serious when I say that consuming problematic media critically is necessary for media literacy #you won't consume enough media to develop any literacy if you only engage with “unproblematic” things #you aren't using your brain at all when you just accept everything without question #and both approaches rob you of an opportunity to exercise critical thinking skills #one piece isn't the only fandom with this issue though. hellaverse fandom is the same.#fans refuse to let it be criticized and antis think you're evil for watching it and both fail to understand the actual media #your shows are not perfect and you need to acknowledge things that aren't perfect and also not instill guilt for enjoying the whole #long post

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