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Odd Moments	By : DeeDaday Category: Transformers > Transformers: Animated > AU/AR Views: 9045 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers Animated and I make no money from these writings.

Chapter List
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A/N: Mail-order inspired by a piece of Black-Panda-Chan's artwork. Extended version found on AFFnet :D Sexually frustrated Megatron is barrels of fun.
Characters: Megatron, Starscream
Pairings: Megatron/Starscream
Warnings: Epic frustration and LOTS of sexual content/references. Also, I realize that the glimpse into Screamer's teenybopper past catapults him into the ‘absolutely despicable character' category, incapable of arousing even fangirl sympathy, but there is still muuuuch more to come.
Also, masturbation.
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Blind Seduction
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One of the primary problems with Starscream, Megatron was soon to realize, was not his irritating voice or his whining, ungrateful nature, or even the increasingly bold attempts to unseat the very man who employed him day-to-day...but rather, that the infamous Seeker brat strutted without even realizing it.
The irritating auditory pollution of his voice, reciting stock trends or predictions for competing companies, quickly quieted to a drone whenever Starscream cocked his hip and eased forward like a woman coyly displaying cleavage, tapping his manicured nails—claws, really--on Megatron's desk. His sharp eyes roved over whatever he was reading, intelligently and with purpose, but his trim waist and white throat drew his President's eyes more than any brightly-colored chart tossed his way. Even worse was when Starscream, usually seated a few seats down from his superior during a board meeting, twisted at the waist and toyed with his hair, perhaps sucking on his lip before licking his fingertips (a sliver of pink tongue, a moment of lidded eyes and wet lips) to turn a page.
In such little moments of casual insanity, Starscream played him befitting his reputation.
The sight made Megatron's gut tighten, his palms sweat. It gave him a gripping physical response that none so far had gained by perusing papers in front of him. He was not a young man, and had acquired preferences all the more complex for his years: it took far more (and often far less) than the sight of a nude body to arouse him, but this was plainly ridiculous.
What was more, the brat caught him looking sometimes. Then, as if drawing off some velvet instinct long since trained away by wariness and fear, Starscream shifted like a leggy 1950's pin-up vixen and dealt him a blazing gaze, lips parted slightly. Fingers against his throat, legs spread. Simply to say, wouldn't you like to undress me?
In a second, it was gone. With a lightning bolt of cold realization, back was his arrogant, defensive little Seeker, cringing within his pretty skin and pulling his mauve coat tighter around himself. Then he sneered, perhaps that the older man would even think himself fit to look, and turned back to his work as one runs into a sanctified church to escape a demon—a grey-eyed demon who continued to watch his every move, and could never chase the image from his mind.
Though Starscream had apparently sworn never to use sex appeal to secure success again, he had so long tailored his every movement to be sensuous that he could not shake the habit. Too often, he was caught off-guard, or simply felt beautiful and desirable and powerful in his element and therefore strutted: he certainly radiated a certain smug, sensual superiority standing at the forefront of the boardroom, presenting whatever needed a presentation. He was unable to hold back that alluring radiance even when half the audience were his own kin, all five summarily disgusted by the sight of him flaunting so openly in front of their silver-haired President.
Was it any wonder they all suspected what had not actually occurred? If only Starscream knew that he dug his own grave in the rumor mill... There were many opinions, but foremost were the scornful accusations that Starscream kept his position in the company by assuming another position in bed after hours. Then again, Megatron did not spare any effort to correct their whispers.
The worse their opinion of the treacherous brat, the better—only when Starscream relented and swore himself in good faith would Megatron clear his name. If he could order his men to kill, then he could order them to respect Starscream. Otherwise, he mused, it would most likely never happen. Starscream, so wrapped in his own ambition and his own world, did not realize that a coup was only appreciated and its results successful when the leader was a tyrant and the daring soul had support.
Tyrant he may have been, Megatron was nothing if not respected and Starscream was a farce of a shrieking, self-righteous lone ranger, unknowing of the instant revolt he would face should he actually succeed in toppling the older man.
Still, they had made some progress together. Starscream no longer pretended to adore him—he left that sad act to Sunstorm and instead had traded his sycophantry for open bickering. Annoying, yes, but more straight-forward. Any increase in efficiency was to be appreciated at that point, and when Starscream had his lip curled and was whining for all he was worth, stripping the brat naked and fucking him senseless against his desk suddenly became far less appealing than punching him in the mouth.
Balance: how any sane entrepreneur maintained his sanity.
As much of a nuisance as he could be, the older man always hung on those flashes what Starscream had been before, curiosity piqued. Megatron could see it so easily: a slim, conceited young peacock in dress slacks and a tight-fitting navy Iacon sweater, catching older mens' eyes before turning and sauntering away only to display the way those slacks fit at the back. He had been a user, powerful in his own way. A little god—a minor succubus with a loose-fitting tie and pink lips, but still, a deity, capable of rendering mortal men's knees weak if they were at all capable of imagining a porcelain ass and high-pitched moans.
Megatron wanted him intensely in those moments, which were always inopportune and inevitably occurred mid-meeting. The fact that he had managed little more than a chaste kiss with the brat was a sore spot. Even more sore was the fact that he knew—knew—that Starscream held something more than disgust for him.
It was a red instinct, the same as that coquettish stroll or the hand on his own throat. The Seeker pulled away far too quickly or paused a second too long in his superior's hard grip, something unidentifiable and frightened flashing on his face before the habitual, cleansing anger surfaced. It was much too far along to be surprised by his advances. The only surprise could lie in the fact that Starscream found himself aching to respond again and again and again.
The urge to wrench a true reaction out of him was at an all-time high when his Second turned on his heel at the front of the darkened room and swirled his fingers down his tie with a smug smile, other hand on his hip.
"As you can see, this delicate situation can easily be turned in our favor with a stock bait-and-switch. We can freely proceed with the original Beta plan, which, while causing something short of pandemonium in the independent market, would—"
Those hips, goddamn it, those hips. Pinned against the back of his chair, Megatron breathed into his callused hand, feeling as though he were being slowly choked by his own incredulity.
Why on earth did his mother teach him to strut like a floozy showgirl? And why the hell had he allowed the whole brood of them to wear such tight pants? He could see—damn it, what couldn't he see?
Already, the President had been forced to shuck his suit jacket and roll his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. The flat, hard plane of his muscled chest radiated heat and he ached to loosen his red tie. He hadn't heard half of the brat's words and what he had heard simply sounded like another overly cocky plan that would blow them wide open, convincing him that the far better plan was to pay attention to Starscream's long legs instead of his slide show. He would have a transcript of the meeting later.
"Sir? President?"
Megatron realized that ‘later' was in fact ‘now' when that awful squawking stopped and the majority of the room turned their eyes on him expectantly, all with varying expressions of impatience. Waiting for him to destroy his Second's foolish plan and send him yelping from the room for his impertinence. Instead, pausing a second in his chair, Megatron cleared his throat and took his glasses off. Rising, he gave the normal parting orders for the part of the presentation that he had heard, then dismissed them all—all but one.
"Starscream," he said sharply, halting the Seeker where he had minced over to gather his papers. His Second looked up as the lights came back on, expression quizzical. "You are not dismissed. I need to speak to you."
The rest of them filed out immediately, trading looks that were faintly disbelieving. Was he actually going to discuss the suicidal plan further? Megatron let them sit on their suspicions, as always, very teeth seeming to vibrate with irritation as he waited for the room to empty.
Starscream, still riding his high, had the gall to roll his eyes and lean up against the long table. Plucking at his papers, he paid the President no mind until the older man was pressed flush against his backside, one hand flat on his chest.
"Dinner. Tonight."
It was a growl, dangerous and guttural—what state this boy brought him to, animal or cromagnum, he would never know. These moments when biology and fixation crashed and swelled, he had no mind for anything but the Seeker. At this point, the invitation was a bid to get closer to him, even as he knew that a frustrating, silent span of communal eating would only inflame the urge.
Sitting in front of steaks and trading glares was not even close to what he wanted to do to Starscream—especially when Starscream wouldn't even do him the honor of conducting a conversation befitting his Second's true intelligence. The President bent to put his cheek to his dark hair, inhaling trendy, musky cologne and tracing the ripple in the young man's back as Starscream straightened in alarm.
"I'm busy," he said sharply, but his attempt to move out of Megatron's grasp was countered by a harsh stiffening of the older man's arm, trapping him hard against his front.
"That's an order, Seeker," Megatron hissed into his neck, every red muscle aching with the flirting, toying, teasing that he had endured at the unwitting hands of the imbecile in his grip. Every time he had held himself back, or worse, been unable to even get a grasp on Starscream left a tiny stripe on his muscles, scarring him and building on the bile that began to rise the night he was so openly refused.
But he was a man who was nothing if not self-controlled. Controlled and patient. Megatron forced himself to lower his voice until it was a velvet timbre.
"As I said, I have something to... discuss with you."
He noted with some satisfaction that Starscream's heart had begun to pound. Megatron drew his nose across the back of the young man's neck, pressing his hips into the Seeker's backside. He felt Starscream twitch into him before his Second grasped his arm tightly and dug his nails into Megatron's bare forearm, entire body freezing to counter the heat and hardness against his back.
"As much as I appreciate being in your professional confidence, sir, I have an appointment and I doubt the management of the Benton company would appreciate it if an extra guest arrived to their executive dinner without warning," Starscream intoned without emotion, eyes fixed on the wall ahead of them. "They expect you in an hour. I assume you have a car waiting."
Megatron scowled into his neck, teeth clicking together. He was not about to press closer and whisper tomorrow—half because he was the President and he didn't resort to anything close to begging, and half because he knew he was scheduled tomorrow as well. For a moment, there was silence. Due to a weight heavier than his own desires, he let his arm go loose. Starscream pushed it down and Megatron knew his inferior would not deign to look back at him on the way out.
"My proposal is still open," the older man said when Starscream reached the door, causing his Second's hand to freeze on the handle. Megatron's tone was as dark as his expression. "You would do well to reconsider, Starscream."
Megatron watched with clenched fists as Starscream stared unseeingly at the door for a slow second—the exact amount of time he always waited before twisting away when caught in the older man's arms--then jerked back into motion and strode out with a definite air of nervousness. The door closed after him with a deep boom. After the sound faded, the older man returned to his head chair and eased into it heavily, one hand to his forehead.
As if of its own accord, his free fist slammed on the table and he sat back, breathing tensely in his empty boardroom. Once more denied.
The President glowered at the doubledoors, considering getting up and locking them, but the heat in his body wouldn't allow for precaution if it delayed any sort of relief. He plainly could not help himself, although help was not the word and he felt only disgruntled impatience opening his silk slacks and easing his blood-heavy cock into his hand. Actual touch after an hour of sitting with a constant erection made him hiss between his teeth, a ripple shaking his rock-hard body. The very image of Starscream—his mind segued from starched lavender shirts to the imagined soft space in between his thighs, the reluctant whimper he would give when broached by a hard hand—made his manhood harden impossibly.
He would have the brat. Perhaps over his desk, white back twisting and wet with sweat. Pleading.
Megatron grit his teeth. No, it was too early to resort to such dramatic fantasies. Thinking about it would only make him want the extravagance that much earlier. Drive him to desperation.
He had been desperate before, in his youth. He would never willingly venture to that dark plane again, much less over an imbecile like Starscream.
Gripping tightly, Megatron dragged his fist up then down his thick shaft, imagining the way the length would disappear when engulfed by the Seeker's pink mouth. Starscream's hair would fall over his eyes, tongue sliding lavishly around the head before pushing it deep into his throat—a show, like every other aspect of his life. And he, he would dig his fingers into Starscream's glossy hair and simply sit back, pleasure daggering through his groin as the brat moaned around his cock, sucking hard as though he wanted nothing more than a slick flood down his throat.
He controlled his mind: kept that soft-skinned, wanton boy from climbing onto his lap and riding his aching cock and crying out and painting his red tie with jism. Jerking mercilessly at himself, the President kept Starscream kneeling and bobbing slowly, lust-dark eyes half-lidded, until he grunted and came, not into a warm, wet mouth but onto the marble floor beneath the boardroom table. His release pattered audibly in the dead-silent room, and after a moment Megatron exhaled shakily, big hand still wrapped around his shaft.
It gave him some relief. The pressure of the seed—his immediate arousal--was gone, but still the low-grade, chronic fever remained. Nothing would cure it but a genuine victory, which would come in the form of a final, helpless whimper from Starscream.
Leaning back into his chair, his knotted body cooling muscle by muscle, Megatron thanked whatever god existed that Starscream had changed. It was difficult plying a frigid egomaniac, even if at times it was as enticing a game as he had ever played. If Starscream truly used himself now, however, and twisted hips and dragged fingers down his chest with the full effort with which he futilely nicked high-security papers... Megatron actually might have succumbed.
The best ironies were the ones that kept one from financial ruin and mental slavery to a waif. To be within Starscream's sadistic power would be equivalent to the seventh circle of hell. This state of frustration, however, could not go on for long. Starscream would be his--and lucky him, the Seeker had spurned the only weapon that could have possibly conquered his lord.
As for now, he had dinner in half an hour—and he had to make sure he was... cleaned.
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Odd Moments