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Of Oil And Strawberries

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He's feeding you again, something or another that’s sticky sweet like syrup and warm against your tongue, something heavy and filling that makes your head buzz and your legs weak. The sounds of appreciation that escape the Combiner’s lips as you carelessly take in what he offers you are deep, low notes that reverberate against the small of your back and the hollow between your ribs. He's made it himself, this mystery brew he continues to scoop out of a jar, coating his blunt fingers and feeding you by hand, swirling his fingertips against your lips before pushing them in as far as they’ll go into your mouth, the tip of your tongue slipping into the seams of his armor and teasing delicate circuitry.

You swallow thickly, licking at your lips and humming when he pulls away, the dimly fluorescent hue of the pinkish liquid dribbling past the corners of your mouth, pooling between your legs and staining the ground. The Construticon makes another sound, caught somewhere between affectionate chiding and something else you’re all too familiar with, possessive and needy and always (always) so hungry. You brush your fingers against your chin, slipping them past your lips and sucking on the lingering traces of sweet syrup caught against them. Your fingers are quickly replaced by one of Mixmaster’s own, a fresh coat of the thick-sweet stuff staining the otherwise flawless green a vibrant shade of pink. You make a show out of cleaning his hand with your tongue, dragging it against the rough armor and dipping in and out of barely there seams, sucking and nipping and swallowing, dragging fingernails against warm metal and leaving shallow little scratches.

It’s not the most effective way to eat for sure, but there’s a certain kind of sensuality to the way you allow the Combiner to lavish you so messily, staining your clothes and your skin with whatever grandiose concoction he’s happened to throw together for your pleasure - Which is his pleasure as well, the act of feeding you something of a turn on to the otherwise manic con, though you sometimes imagine the obsession of feeding you is just some smaller, alien reflection of his own ability to ingest and reformat materials, and you can’t help but smile at the thought. That was fine really, his interest in you, his interest in indulging you in treats your palette would have otherwise never experienced was more than enough to make up for the unfortunate implications of his interest.

Your stomach produces a sound, equally low and drawn out, and you pull your eyes away from that warmly red optic band to glance down at yourself, and you place a hand delicately over your now distended stomach - You can vaguely feel something warm swirl around inside of you, and all at once you feel both a hunger and a wave of nausea roll over you in equal parts, and Mixmaster all but scoops you up in his servos, lifting you and cradling you close against his chassis. You arch appreciatively into his touch when he begins to stroke along the length of your spine, and it’s hardly any surprise to you when his nimble fingers find their way to your protruding belly, minute pressure applied just enough for him to dig into your soft, bloated flesh.

He retrieves the jar of your current meal with a free hand, swirling the thick liquid within and tipping the rim back against your lips, wordlessly coaxing you to open your mouth and feed. You protest to the fullest of your abilities (which isn’t much of a protest to begin with), turning your head to the side and pushing against the offered treat, curling up against his fingers and giving him a rather pleasant view of your swollen stomach. His engine sputters at the sight and he whines, a sound that’s so completely coloured by need it almost catches you completely off guard, but still you resist when he attempts yet again to coax you into parting those pretty lips and taking a swallow.

His engine gives another rumble you not only hear but feel, the sound growing in intensity almost to the point of discomfort, but you continue to childishly evade his efforts at feeding until he’s forced to pin you down against his palm with a thumb. There isn’t an ounce of heat in the way you struggle against his grip (if you can even call it a struggle to begin with), conceding defeat when he offers the jar for a third time, and you raise your hands to hold onto whatever part of the glass you can reach, drinking long and deep and filling yourself with the smell and taste of nauseating sweetness, and even after you’ve ceased to take in anymore he continues to hold you down, watching with rapt fascination as your stomach continues to stretch - He stops only at the point where you’re certain you can’t take anymore, when the mild discomfort inside of you grows to an almost suffocating fullness.

“How do you fe-fe-feel?” He purrs the question in a tone sweet enough to rival his concoction, and you manage to flash him a drowsy, mildly forced smile, and he sets the jar down in favor of bringing you closer to his face. There’s an audible clicking sort of sound when he disengages his mouth plate, and it’s no surprise to you to find him smiling (leering) down at you, bottom lip caught between his denta in anticipation and excitement. You sigh deeply, arching against his palm and rolling onto your back, and you draw lazy little circles against the swell of your stomach, patting it gently and listening to the terrible wet sloshing coming from inside, just past your skin. You aren’t the only one who’s listening, and it’s with an almost surprising amount of care that Mixmaster moves your hand away and tentatively begins to undo the buttons of your shirt, a sharp hiss of air escaping him when it comes undone, parting to reveal naked skin stretch taut over your stuffed belly.

He presses the end of a finger against the soft bulge, mimicking the lazy figure eights you yourself had rubbed out earlier, pausing now and again to graze against your navel, to brush just under your chest, brush against the swell of your sides. his touch is absolutely reverent, cycling air erratically, and it’s almost enough to lull you into a shallow, hazy daze - That is, at least until he begins to apply pressure against you, tentative little bursts of rough touching before he presses against the crown of your distended belly, and a surge of something sweetly bitter swells against your chest, filling you up and racing up your throat - Oh, you’d almost forgotten that feeding you wasn’t the only thing he liked to do. You press your hands against your mouth, willing your body to relax and the bile to slide back down your throat, but the Constructicon is relentless in his ministrations, jostling you roughly until you’re forced to sit up, batting your hands away and applying just a little bit more pressure against the tenderness of your torso, his optic band shining brighter than ever with such fervent interest, an almost palpable expectation weighing heavily on your shoulders.

“Show me,” he murmurs, finger sliding under your chin to raise your head up, before sliding back down to your stomach and squeezing relentlessly, pushing and prodding and coercing, “I want to see.” You’re powerless to resist, and you can’t bring yourself to look away when that same something rises back up inside of you, settling heavily in the back of your throat, and Mixmaster takes it onto himself to assist, thumb and forefinger bearing down on either side of your throat, just bellow your chin, and your eyes roll to the back of your head before your gag reflex is triggered and so much comes pouring out, the consistency of neon pink and clear translucent bile spilling out from between parted lips to pool between your legs, and it soaks through your clothes, settles wet and heavy against the metal of his palm.

It’s a little humiliating (it always is), more so when you begin to begrudgingly admit to yourself that it feels good, that the motions of getting sick and throwing up all over yourself while the gestalt watched was affecting you in ways that were the complete opposite of disgust. “Ahh - ” He coos childishly, brushing a finger against your cheek, smearing sweet and pink and spit against your cheek, “Absolutely fa-fa-fascinating.” At least he was enjoying himself.