His grip on the seeker’s chin tightens like a vice. The tension that builds is harbored in the steel of his fingers. It leaks down the length of his forearm where it halts in the joint of the his elbow. The breadth of his shoulders keep their deceptive ease. The gears between them were well oiled, and they could move with a speed that was astonishing for a mech his size, and reflexes so carefully honed in the pits of Kaon.
It’s a display of control; of his own body, of the seeker in his hold.
A soft scrape of metal punctures the quiet that ebbs in and out of the Nemesis’ hollow command bridge, never having the chance to settle. Starscream adjusts in his lap, thighs scraping thighs, crest pressed to Megatron’s forehead. He holds it there.
The expression that settles on Megatron’s face remains neutral, save for the spark of something else, something indiscernible at the edge of his scarlet eyes. An interest? A desire?
His gaze rests on the lines that curve the seeker’s mouth. Back and forth he tilts his second’s head in a surprisingly delicate manner despite the strength of his grip, as if he’s examining him. Such an artfully sculpted jaw that could spew such artfully sculpted slag.
He doesn’t bless Starscream with a verbal response.
TORTUROUS WAS THE SILENCE, the unhurried way Megatron turns his helm from side to side. how his lingering gaze wanders and freely offers the extent of his uninterrupted attention, all now placed on him and him alone. such attention was rare, and it leaves him feeling open, vulnerable. yet even under the salacious glow, Starscream knows that there is a purpose behind it. one meant to agitate; to further display a level of control over a battle that neither of them wished to allow victory to the other.
but two could play that game, and Starscream reaches for his leader; snakes his arms around the tyrant’s broad shoulders and drags a gentle claw down the length of their back. digging into the ridges that could be found in a manner resembling appreciation. though his attempts at distraction seem lacklustre, it isn’t long before optics narrow to crimson half moons. each passing second that he is scrutinised, the more his smile wavers. no longer are the corners of his lips pulled upwards to mimic the simpering arc of a luxurious smirk; all too eager now to twist his features into scowl that shows his displeasure.
whether this was in response to the tightening of Megatron’s firm grasp, or the allowing of this tryst to continue without comment, remains to be seen.
either way, Starscream’s patience has worn thin and he dares to move even closer. to push forehead further against Megatron’s until such closeness would have been off-putting to any other mech. but the jet only considers it a challenge, lets their metal press together until the sound matches that of his thighs as he lowers himself down into a slow and languid grind.
and in doing so, the shiver that trails the length of his spine is as unmistakable as is the purr of engines that can be heard between them.
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