Work Text:
“This is hopeless!”
“Were you expecting the words to simply appear on your page without any conscious effort?” Megatron asks and Starscream can hear the smirk in his voice. He stops and slams his lightpen down on his desk, tilting his helm to meet Megatron’s gaze. As expected, he's amused, but there's also an infuriating amount of concern so out in the open.
He grinds his denta and scowls. Megatron takes his lack of response as a ‘yes’, picking up the datapad and holding it out of Starscream’s reach when the seeker swipes at him. He arches a brow. “Let's see then.”
Starscream slumps in his chair when Megatron’s expression falls the more he reads. When he finishes, he gives it back to Starscream, who promptly tosses it at the wall. Out of sight, out of mind.
“Wasn't it you who insisted you didn't need my help with this?” Megatron recalls, reaching over to salvage the remains of the now-broken datapad.
“Because I don't,” Starscream scoffs. Megatron dangles the thing in front of his face.
“Really? Your writing says otherwise,” he taunts. Starscream plucks it out of his servos and shoves it into one of his drawers, closing it with enough force to shake the desk. “You've barely produced a coherent thought. I suppose it is a perfect reflection of your inner workings.”
“I've written papers!” Starscream protests. Megatron looks at him pointedly. Starscream averts his optics and corrects himself. “ Science papers .” He shakes his helm. “What kind of glitch do you have to be to enjoy this?!”
Megatron rolls his optics and drags a chair over to sit by Starscream’s side, producing a datapad of his own. “It can be cathartic,” he offers. Starscream snorts and raises a brow at him.
“Writing speeches?”
“No,” Megatron admits with a chuckle. “Poetry is an extension of the spark. It allows–” Starscream feigns a yawn. Megatron has half a mind to reprimand him, but cuts his ramblings short. “Speeches should appeal to your audience. That alone is a limit.”
Starscream nods and kicks his pedes up on the desk, inadvertently sending the lightpen flying by doing so. “Fine,” he says after a moment of contemplation, having sufficiently twisted his decision so that to him, it's not about admitting to his shortcomings, but rather permitting Megatron this honor of guiding him. “You're writing it.”
“You're staying,” Megatron seizes Starscream by the wrist before the seeker can even think about leaving. “I will need your input, otherwise it's blatantly obvious I am the one who wrote this in the first place. Every mech has a distinct–”
“Yes, yes,” Starscream quickly cuts him off before he has the chance to go on another tangent, really wanting this stupid speech to be done this cycle. “I wasn't planning on letting you write the downfall of my stature unsupervised.” He cares about keeping up appearances, even if his trademark isn’t popular with the people. He supposes the fact that he doesn't give a slag about that also fits into said ‘appearance’.
Starscream pulls his wrist from Megatron’s grasp and fetches a pair of spectacles from his subspace, setting them on Megatron’s nasal ridge. He smiles coyly at his mate when he lets his servo linger a moment longer, digits trailing to trace Megatron's lips. Starscream may ridicule Megatron for wearing them and call him old , but his words never did correspond that well to his real feelings. The glasses frame Megatron’s faceplates perfectly and possess an allure Starscream can't deny.
When Megatron kisses his digits he returns from his daydreams and replaces his servo with his lips, allowing them to share in a quick, chaste kiss. He pulls back reluctantly; there is still work that needs to be done, and he knows that if they get started, there would be no salvaging this.
Starscream’s helm thunks against Megatron’s shoulder when he presses into his side, criticizing his work with a narrowed optic.
“First off,” he begins when Megatron grabs a pen, gesturing to the screen. “I want you to open it in a way that reminds the attendees they're honored to be in my presence…”