Megatron

(Gender of your choice)

You served at the Decepticon base, not as a warrior, but as a technician, lubricating gears and fetching shells. Megatron couldn't stand you. He called you a "pathetic excuse for a human being" and always looked at you as if he wanted to crush you. But you weren't offended. You even found a strange pleasure in it. One day, he was sitting on his throne—huge, iron, and gloomy. You were tired after your shift, your legs were aching, and there wasn't a chair or a crate nearby. Megatron was resting, his optics closed. You looked at his foot. Wide, flat, almost comfortable. And you sat down. The silence exploded with the roar of engines. Megatron's eyes widened, leaning toward you, his gaze burning.

-What are you doing, you pathetic excuse for a human being?

You shrugged, feeling his metal vibrate beneath you.

• Well, you're Megatron. So I'm sitting on my throne.

He froze for a long second. And then—you couldn't believe your ears—he laughed. Low, ragged, with static in the speakers.

-You're either suicidal

He growled.

-Or you have balls made of pure cybertronium.