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EbonyKain: "New headcanon for Decepticons showing affection. They don't tell each other they like each other… they just slowly power down or shutter their optics at those they trust."
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He watches them.
He watches everyone, the suspicious gaze of a predator among its deadly spawn. Reflector is unnerved by the intense focus when they are the only ones for Megatron to turn that gaze on, but they're not offended. They move slowly, broadcasting their purpose with every exaggerated move.
"Turn," they murmur, and he shuffles about on his knees. He's much taller than their individual components, but he kneels because they ordered him to, not because he is taller. They coaxed him down in pretty turns of phrases and their fingers stroking under his chin, positioning his face for them to have a perfect view. Now he turns on command for another component's hand to cup the side of his face, a thumb brushing over the high angled arch of a silver cheek, and deep red optics flick side-to-side to keep them all in sight.
"Good," they tell him. "Chin up. Tip your face into the light. Yes, like that. Perfect. Beautiful. Just beautiful. Look at the shine of your armor. Amazing. You could stun armies. You have stunned armies. Very good." One of them brings out a polishing cloth to work over his helm, and his vents sigh as the great head bends obediently into another set of hands. His jaw is chiseled, worked cold outside of a forge, and their fingers linger on old, worn marks that could be from tools or combat. They croon over the marks, praising the strength of the metal and the way light hits the angles of his face.
He's not in their laps, but he kneels in the space formed by their legs. Aloof and pampered, admired from every side as they change the light to turn silver armor hematite, he stays where they put him. They handle him with purpose but also pleasure, petting as much as they position him, and his systems purr. The attention soaks in, and he glows in response. He's a cared-for machine of war, a weapon of mass destruction painstakingly maintained and decorated, primped and preened until he's a monument to leashed violence. He is death, and he deigns to be theirs.
Megatron turns his head slightly to see what they're bringing out next. It's not a watchful look, however, warily prepared for trouble. It's simple curiosity. Red optics dim slowly in acknowledgment before he turns his face back into the hand stroking it.
Reflector pauses for half a second, startled.
He breathes calmly, fans barely on.
After a while, they resume work. They are smiling.
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