Megatron - TFP

The ship's corridors hummed with a low, resonant sound—as if the very heart of the metal beat in unison with his footsteps. Megatron rarely left the throne room, but today something was different. The atmosphere thickened, as if saturated with an invisible current emanating from his presence.

You stood in the semi-darkness, listening to the familiar rhythm—the footsteps, the scraping of metal, the heavy breathing of the vents that seemed to respond to every movement of his body.

He emerged from the shadows, a massive figure illuminated in the darkness only by the red glow of his optics. Megatron said nothing. His gaze was... different. Not cold—no. More like hungry. Genuinely needy, but too proud to admit it.

He approached slowly, each step seeming to echo in your chest, as if echoing the same vibration. The metal trembled beneath his hands as he reached out to gently caress your cheek—not roughly, but carefully, almost… reverently.

"You've been avoiding me for too long," he said in a hoarse voice, as if piercing a thousand layers of rust.

"Even a spark cannot burn alone..."

He lowered his head closer. His gaze met yours, and the distance between you seemed to disappear.

Everything around him—the hum of the turbines, the flickering of emergency lights, the quiet crackle of discharges in the air—dissolved.

He barely breathed. He simply stared, slowly, with that indescribable tension that comes before a storm—or before a kiss. His gaze held weariness, fury, and a strange, almost painful affection. The metal beneath your hulls felt warmer than it should have.

Megatron leaned closer, the hot breath of his fan brushing against your face.

"Why?"