It is the easiest of all the commands to obey. It leaves a peace in his spark, despite the mech he is bowing to.
Onslaught drops down, his faceplate at level with Starscream’s right foot, the Seeker’s thruster pointed dangerously toward his head. Onslaught’s hands rest on his thighs.
Starscream sits above him, on something Onslaught would dare call a throne, one leg crossed over the other. He leans to the side, weight braced on his elbow, head tilted upon a closed fist. He smirks as he looks down at Onslaught, the curve of his lips as commanding as his tone of voice.
His foot moves, slowly, slowly. It inches toward Onslaught’s head, the tip of it pressing against the edge of his visor. He’s visited the washrack recently. He smells of hot metal and solvent, and a lingering tang of afterburn.
“Pity you don’t have a mouth,” Starscream purrs as his foot nudges against Onslaught’s head.
His fingers itch, aching to touch. This is a dangerous game they play, for Onslaught especially, because Starscream can be treacherous. But no one commands the way Starscream does. No one knows how to bend and twist. No one else understands.
“I suppose I’ll have to find other uses for you,” Starscream continues as his foot strokes up and down the side of Onslaught’s helm.
His spark burns in his chassis. Fluids pump through his lines, faster and faster. He knows better than to speak. His ventilations increase.
Starscream’s glossa flicks over his lips. “Maybe you’ll make a suitable footrest.”
Onslaught’s engine whines.
Starscream’s optics burn with glee.