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Perhaps, if you had to describe how you were feeling about all this, curled up like some kind of treasured pet on the Predacon Warlord’s lap with your back pressed firmly against his thick, unyielding chest, small hands tracing gentle, nonsensical patterns against silver-black plating that melts and morphs and gives way to dark purple skin the closer you wandered down to his not-servo, you might even say you were in love.

Not that such a nauseatingly Maximalian emotion would ever be formally recognized between the two of you, white-hot precious feelings that were wrapped up tight in layers of denial and feigned ignorance and kept safely to yourselves in a futile effort to at least appear professional (you were fooling absolutely nobody with your terrible acting skills and genuine lack of indifference, and sometimes you catch Inferno looking at you with the most unreadable expression whenever you touch Megatron’s not-servo), but it’s only in these rare moments of uninterrupted togetherness that you can at least afford to indulge in your absurd little fascination. Your wandering hands arrive at their destination, your paramore’s right servo which isn’t really a servo at all (not by any stretch of imagination), and you all but chirp in heartfelt appreciation when the Predacon leader relents and allows you to lay the head of his beast mode down over your lap, your fingertips pressing delicately against the rough, leathery skin of the tyrannosaurus’ face as you commit the contours of his limb to memory and try to burn the feeling of this moment into your nerves.

And it’s only that completely genuine look of absolute wonderment and delight shining bright in your eyes that keeps Megatron from opening his second jaw and snapping your curious, probing fingers clean off of your small defenseless body (and that’s all that’s keeping him from doing so, the satisfaction of your endlessly mesmerized reactions enough to stay his decision to maul you and absolutely, absolutely not because of anything else, certainly not because he cares about you, Primus don’t be ridiculous how could he possibly). You trace the sharp curve of Megatron’s limb like you’re afraid to break him, touch the corners of its mouth with purpose as you brush your fingers over razor sharp teeth and jagged bone and sigh deeply, contentment colouring your tone and written all over your face in these all too brief moments of unguarded scrutiny you can only wish would happen with greater frequency. Oddly enough, you’ve never felt safer than you do now, not when you have your hands all over him and not when he shifts and sighs and drapes his chin over the top of your head, a low approving hum rumbling against the back of his throat and spreading out across his chassis when you brush the pad of your thumbs under the heavy lids of his beast mode’s head.

You’re really, really cute - You murmur softly, soft enough that you can both pretend you had said nothing, can pretend that he didn’t just hear you call the world’s most dangerous (and the world’s most handsome) being cute, therefore all but admitting that you viewed him as someone who was less of a threat than you should have - In your defense though, you had been referring to the tyrannosaurus head that served as his root form’s right hand this time - Soft enough that you can pointedly ignore the way his shoulders stiffen and his haunches prick with contrasting indignation and oh so predictable smugness, because damn you human you should be trembling before him, not touching him like this, looking at him like this, as though he did not frighten and intimidate you and like you were in lov - Oh no, that enough of that, the arm not currently entrapped against your body winding around your waist and absolutely not at all pulling you closer to him, what are you talking about. You bend forward, raising the head on your lap to your lips and pressing a kiss that was perhaps a little too feather-light, a little too chaste and sweet to really count as a proper kiss against the corner of his beast mode’s mouth, pulling back and smiling that awful, dazzling smile of yours -

Boop, ☆ the nonsense word draws forth a bubbling laugh from deep within you, bright and airy and the sound not unlike a million billion little bells that tickle at Megatron’s audials, sticky-sweet and powarm, soft and alien and so, so much like you - And the Predacon Warlord can only stare wordlessly at you, stare at you in wonderment and confusion and something that looks so dangerously, dangerous close to affection - But then you simply have to go and ruin the moment, ruin everything by tapping your finger against his not-servo’s wide, blunt snout, your laughter growing in strength and becoming unavoidable infectious and oh, he was going to murder you for this indignity.

…Probably, maybe.