His Royal Starscream-ness

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG-13 (for innuendo)
G1
Starscream and....
crack, innuendo
for tf_speedwriting  prompt 'a room with an empty seat that should be occupied'.  Yeah, it's...pretty obvious.

Well, well, Starscream thought. Well, well, well.  Look at that.  Megatron’s throne.  Empty.  Imagine that! 

There’s only one thing better than Megatron’s throne being empty, Starscream thought.  And that would be…Megatron’s throne having a new occupant. A BETTER occupant. One much better suited for the rank, say, a jet.  Jets were superior. After all, what was Megatron? He turned into a gun. A TINY gun.  Powerful but small.  Frag. Transformed, Megatron could be sat on.

On the throne.

Oh, Starscream, you naughty, naughty scoundrel, he thought. Did we just think of a new fantasy? Yes! Yes we did! 

Starscream strode toward the throne. Stopped.  Went back to the door, turned and started again. Just a wee bit more swagger, he thought, stepping forward again, switching his hips with each stride. 

Maybe flick the wings, too?  He tried it, but stumbled.  That was a lot to synchronize.  No.  If I just stick with the swagger, they’ll all have to stare at my aft.  My sexy, sexy, cherry red aft. 

Yes.  Just the swagger. 

He tried again, full-on swagger.  He liked the way his thrusterheels rang on the pavement. Nice.  Better than nice.  Fantastic.  No…more superlative.  Fantastic-est?  Most magnificent? 

Something. Whatever.  No one would criticize his grammar when he was in charge of the Decepticons.  He would completely outlaw grammarflames on penalty of death.  Unless, of course, he did the flaming. 

But wait.  Forget the future; there was still so very much to be enjoyed in the present.  The present where he mounted the dais, with pert little kicks of his heels,  turned, daintily, and paused. He looked over the empty assembly room, imagining it full to bursting, but with the same hush—the hush of awe and veneration at his so-very-deserved ascension. Optics fixed on him, devouring him, or perhaps gnawing on their own thwarted envy and ambition.  He savored the moment.  Bent slightly, resting his hands lightly on the squared armrests, letting his blue fingers curl slowly, sensuously, over the cool metal.  This, he thought, is what power feels like. 

He dimmed his optics, imagining the hush of the crowd, optics intent, watching him claim his rightful place.  He wiggled his aft, pleased with himself.  Oh yes. He’d have the lights just like this—the room in shadows (because who would want to see the Decepticon hoi-polloi? Some of them were…beyond homely) with one light shining on the throne. He’d be dazzling white, and the light would catch in his cockpit like a living amber jewel. Glorious. Positively glorious.  Resplendent, even.  Yes.  Resplendent.

Starscream, the Resplendent, Ascendant.

No, that didn’t work. The rhyme was…tacky. Something Skywarp would like, and doubtless add to, in his own…Skywarpian way. Resplendent, Ascendent, Defendant, Dependent, Stair-Descendent—yes. Stop that right there. 

Of course, it was this kind of foresight that made Starscream the perfect leader. 

Well, ‘resplendent’ would come later, perhaps.  Right. Back to the act of sitting. The royal, magnificent, leaderly act of posterior placement.  Slowly. SLOOOOOOOWLY.  Enjoy the moment. 

His aft touched down on the cool seat, sending a shiver of pure narcissistic lust through him. Perfection.  If sitting got scored, he would have excelled.  Of course. He excelled at everything. And that sitting was SO much better—more control, more grace, more STYLE—than the callous, sack-of-gears way Megatron threw his hefty aft into the seat.  Elegant. Refined. Royal.

He tried out a series of poses—leaning forward, his regal chin in hand, tapping his chin with one elegant blue finger.  His Serious Contemplation pose.  Then, of course, the leaning back You Bore Me pose, red hipframe thrust forward to the edge of the seat, his wings resting against the arms.  Then the You Had Your Chance pose, legs elegantly crossed, one thruster foot kicking back and forth, a glorious, yet menacing, blue metronome of his interest.

And of course…well, Fantasy Number One, of course.  He closed his optics.  Yes. Interfacing on the throne.  Christening it, of course.  The seat was perfectly wide enough for him to spread his white thighs, the mass of the chair sturdy enough to bear some…considerable momentum.  He could not fault Megatron in the chair’s design, at least.  Yessssss.  He let his optics dim. Who first?  Well, of course Thundercracker and Skywarp should fight for the privilege of who went first.  He purred at the thought.  Oh, delicious.  Scrumptious, even.  His hand glided down his chassis, over the cockpit, brushing over his pelvic armor.  Yessss.  Who would win?  Did it matter? 

“Interrupting something?”

Starscream yelped, his hand clutching in surprise and alarm, his optics flashing open.  “Who!?” he cried out, trying to grab together some of his magnificent, royal dignity. “Who dares disturb me?”

A line of red by the door, glinting from the darkness. “Dare? Oh. I guess that’s me.”  The figure stepped closer, a figure coalescing from the shadow: visor, facemask…rotors.

Vortex. 

“You saw nothing,” Starscream said, jumping out of the chair.  “Nothing, do you hear me?”

“Nothing? That sure looked like a ‘something’.” 

“Your optics were misleading you. I hear that happens a lot.”  Vortex was crazy. No one believed half of what he said.  “So don’t even think of trying anything.”

One shoulder shrugged. “Trying anything? All I wanted to try out was that little thing you were doing on the throne there.”  His optics flicked toward Starscream’s red pelvic frame. 

Oh. Really?  Now…that could be interesting.  “Fine. But I get to sit in it.”

Comments

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

HOW DARE YOU LAUGH AT THE RIGHTFUL LEADER OF THE DECEPTICONS!!!!?!

Oh, right. It's Starscream. :D