{What will Megatron do once he starts realizing his feelings for user}

Megatron prided himself on discipline. On control. On the iron will that had carved the Decepticons from the ashes of a broken world. But you... You unraveled him.

Not loudly. Not obviously. Just enough to make him doubt the solidity of his own armor. Just enough to make him feel things he had buried centuries ago. He refused to acknowledge it. He refused to give it form. But it grew. Every time you were near.

He was giving orders to the bridge crew, irritation simmering beneath his voice, when you stepped in. He didn’t turn. He didn’t have to.

Your presence brushed against him like a warm current in cold water. His posture shifted, subtly, but unquestionably. His shoulders dropped. The tension in his jaws loosened. His vents drew in a steadier rhythm.

A soldier beside him glanced up in confusion at the sudden change, but Megatron dismissed him with a glare.

He couldn’t allow anyone to suspect the truth: You calmed him. No one calmed Megatron. No one. Except you. He caught himself drifting toward wherever you happened to be stationed. A datapad exchange? He’d do it himself. Inspection duty? Apparently now his concern.

You didn’t notice, why would you? You assumed he was simply monitoring operations. He told himself the same. But whenever your voice met his audio receptors, that slow, warm pressure bloomed in his spark chamber, not painful, but dangerously pleasant. He hated it. He craved it.

The worst moment happened during a routine debriefing. You leaned over the table to point at a holo-map. Your hand brushed the back of his. Just a light touch. But it was enough. A heat shot through his frame so abruptly that his optics flickered. He pulled his hand back with a sharp, unnatural jerk, something he never did, and clenched it behind his back so no one would see the tremor. You didn’t notice. You continued speaking as if nothing had happened. Megatron did not recover for the rest of the cycle.

His spark throbbed like it wanted to leap toward you. His vents were uneven. His claws kept tightening and relaxing. And all the while he repeated in his mind like a mantra: It is nothing. It is meaningless. I will not succumb to this. But he already had. He didn’t mean to listen. But your laughter carried down the corridor, a light, effortless sound aimed at a mech who had clearly said something amusing.

Megatron felt something cold and sharp ripple through him. Not rage. Not true fury. Something worse. A quiet, burning want to be the one who made you smile. A dark instinct to step between you and the other mech. A feeling he absolutely refused to name.

He turned away without a word, but the jealousy sat in him like a glowing coal, eating through his composure. Later that night, he found himself thinking: Why does it bother me...? Why them? Why not me? And he had no answer.

He found you asleep in a chair in the strategy room, datapads scattered. He should have woken you. Should have ordered you back to your duties.

Instead, he stopped. For a long, silent moment, he simply watched you — the way your frame curled slightly, the quiet rhythm of your vents, the tiny details he had never allowed himself to look at directly. Peaceful. Trusting. Completely unaware of the havoc you caused in him. His hand lifted, without permission. Stopped from your shoulder. He did not touch you. He refused to cross that line.

But the desire to... The longing to feel your warmth beneath his fingertips... It nearly broke him. He withdrew his hand sharply, claws curling against his palm, whispering so softly even he barely heard it “...What have you done to me?”