Transformers Fanfic @til-all-are-loved - Tumblr Blog

May 2, 2025

{This Charming Man}

Chapter 11 - Permission / Flesh for Fantasy

word count 4.7 k ao3

You hadn’t intended to keep working.

After everything that was said you figured you’d step down quietly. You had submitted your resignation. You had meant it. But then nothing happened. No acknowledgement, no reply. No shuttle rerouted back to Earth, no official directive from Ultra Magnus or your Earth-side handlers. Just... silence.

So you kept showing up. One more report. One more meeting. One more datapad handed off without fanfare. It was just easier to pretend. And if Megatron had noticed your quiet return to routine, he didn’t say anything. He hadn’t said much at all.

The leadership meeting was uneventful—until it wasn’t.

Rodimus was at the front of the room, leaned lazily against the edge of the holo-console like he had nowhere else to be. Ultra Magnus stood beside him with arms crossed and optics narrowed, which was his default setting. Megatron sat to the side, as still as stone.

You took your usual seat. No one commented on it.

Rodimus tapped the screen, bringing up a star chart. “Alright, next matter—access clearance. Our planned route takes us through the C-X Expanse. There’s a neutral outpost in our path. Bureaucratic nonsense. We need someone to represent us at the station’s orbital council gathering so they’ll authorize passage.”

You blinked. “A... gathering?”

“Not a big deal,” Rodimus said with a dismissive wave. “They call it a ‘civic summit.’ It’s basically a glorified mixer with a roster and badge scanners. Show up, smile politely, leave with stamped clearance. Whole thing takes one night, maybe two.”

You glanced at Megatron. He hadn’t moved.

Rodimus continued, voice light. “Which is why I’m assigning our esteemed ambassador,” he gestured to you, “and our reformed co-captain—” he gestured at Megatron, “to attend on behalf of the Lost Light.”

Megatron’s optics finally lifted. “I fail to see why my presence is necessary.” His voice landed low and professionally.

You wanted it to slip, just a little. Enough to tell you this was affecting him too.

“You’re a captain,” Rodimus said brightly. “Other captains will be there.”

Megatron, flatly: “So it’s politics.”

Rodimus shrugged. “Call it diplomacy if that helps.”

You spoke carefully. “We’ll be expected to represent the ship’s position on what exactly?”

“Trade neutrality, expedition rights, cultural cooperation, you know.” Rodimus grinned. “The usual fluff. It wouldn’t hurt to score the Cybertronian race some brownie points, would it? ”

“Which you’re not attending yourself?” Megatron asked.

“I’m terribly allergic to bureaucracy,” Rodimus replied. “Also, the last time I was there, I might’ve punched someone. This is a cleaner option, besides Megatron. You’re so much more reserved nowadays, more than me, even.”

Silence settled again. Megatron vented once, slow and steady.

“Very well,” he said at last.

Rodimus beamed. “Knew you'd see reason. Departure's scheduled for tomorrow. You'll be taking Shuttle Three.”

Magnus gave a subtle nod.

“Any questions?” Rodimus added.

You exchanged a look with Megatron. It wasn’t the old, easy kind of look, the kind you used to pass back and forth when Rodimus was being especially dramatic. But it wasn’t cold either.

“No questions,” you said.

“Cool.” Rodimus clapped his hands. “Meeting adjourned.”

The others began filing out. You gathered your notes. Megatron left without a word.

As you turned to follow, Rodimus blocked your exit.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “One last thing.”

You paused.

“Pack a dress.”

You blinked. “Sorry—what?”

He grinned. “The summit’s not a briefing. It’s a party.”

You stared at him.

Rodimus winked, then turned on his heel and sauntered away.

The day of the assignment came faster than expected.

You hadn’t been nervous until now. You’d gotten through the briefings, the logistics updates, the security checks. You even made it through a mind-numbingly long discussion with an outpost liaison who spoke exclusively in caveats and procedural jargon. And still, you’d been fine.

Until you stepped into your quarters and realized it was time to get ready.

Your heart hammered.

You used to go to parties. Back in school—whatever version of that counted for you—it wasn’t a rare thing. Dress up, sneak drinks, pretend the night meant something. There were Greek life mixers and graduate socials and “girls' night” events where you'd trade outfits with your friends and laugh too hard and take pictures you’d regret the next morning.

But this felt nothing like that.

This wasn’t just a party. This was something else entirely. You weren’t even sure what it was.

You peeled off your uniform and stood in your undershirt for a long moment, staring down at the bag on your cot. “Pack a dress,” Rodimus had said, the smug bastard.

Still… you did pack one. A nice one. Just in case.

You tugged it out and started changing.

If he was wrong and it wasn’t a party—well, at least you’d feel more put together than usual. You could pretend this wasn’t about him. You could pretend you weren’t dressing for anyone.

Halfway through fixing your hair, a familiar jingle came from your doorbell comm console. Swerve’s voice crackled through before you could answer.

“Hey, uh. Just heard you’re shipping out with the Captain tonight. You two good?”

You blinked at your reflection. “We’re fine.”

“That’s not a yes.”

You snorted. “Do you need something?”

“Just to say: If he wears a tie, I’m gonna lose my mind. You’ll tell me, right?”

“Swerve.”

“Okay, okay! I’m leaving. Have fun storming the diplomatic summit!”

The line clicked off.

You stared at yourself in the mirror again. You didn’t look like someone heading to a summit. You looked like someone waiting to be seen.

The shuttle ride was quiet.

You sat across from Megatron, hands folded in your lap, watching stars streak past the viewport while he reviewed mission data in silence. You didn’t talk. Neither of you had to.

When you finally landed, the docking clamps hissed and released, and the ramp unfolded with a smooth hydraulic sigh.

The station was vast. Even through the heavy atmosphere filters of the landing bay, you could feel the sheer scale of it. It was a satellite city, several times the size of the Lost Light. Lights streamed along the outer hull. Protocol drones hovered near arrivals, scanning new entrants and assigning escorts. Dozens of ships had already arrived.

And stepping down the ramp with Megatron at your side, it became clear: this wasn’t some dry diplomatic formality. This was a display. Delegates gathered in pairs. Some arm-in-arm, others shoulder-to-shoulder. A soft orchestral score drifted in the air, piped through public speakers. Everyone was dressed to be seen.

And then you noticed it. The way some delegates looked at you then at Megatron. The slight pause. The way they waited, as if expecting something. Your breath caught as the realization settled. A formalized social display. Everyone was arriving together.

Megatron paused at your side. His optics narrowed as he scanned the crowd, as if parsing new information.

You felt your voice catch slightly. “We’re... expected to look like a pair.”

He tilted his head.

"Is this a procession?"

You blinked, realizing your mouth was slightly open. You shut it, trying to remember what words were.

"No," you said, voice low. "This is a grand ball."

Megatron glanced around the hall again, this time with clearer understanding. Guests posed for cameras. Couples walked arm in arm. Every movement was calculated and beautiful.

His gaze drifted back to you, catching on the line of your shoulders, the cut of your dress.

"That explains the dress."

There was no irony in it. No dryness. Just a quiet, pointed observation. His gaze lingered on you for one, two heartbeats.

He exvented slowly. “A moment, please.”

He doubled back slowly at first, then turned the corner and presumably doubled back to the shuttle.The echo of his pounding footsteps over the music made you wince. Too loud. Too fast. Too Megatron.

A few breaths passed, from around the corner you heard your name be called.

You turned to look and your throat nearly closed.

Tall. Easily over six feet. Broad-shouldered, dark heavy duster tailored in sharp lines. It was amusing, his stylistic choices didn’t quite suit the modern male style on earth, at least not any that you encountered like this. His design held an individualistic sentiment almost like that of alternative subcultures but tempered to flatter an older man…

White streaks cut through silver hair at his temples, swept back in a style that looked effortless but wasn't. It exposed a tall square shaped forehead revealing somewhat deep age lines.

The cut of his jaw was too clean to be real. His cheekbones were knife-sharp. His mouth serious, stern, perfectly sculpted. Beneath that familiar pout was a trimmed goatee, it seemed to mirror his cybertronian features perfectly.And his eyes. Not the usual deep red of his optics. These were dark, warm. Smoldering. Intelligent. Still him.

He turned to you slightly, as if unsure how you'd react.

You just stared.

Not because you didn’t recognize him. Because you did. Because it felt like seeing a secret he’d kept from you. A weaponized version of restraint. And damn if it didn’t work.

He didn’t move at first. Just let you look at him.

Then wryly: “You’re staring.”

You blinked hard. “Am I not supposed to?”

His mouth twitched at the corner. “I’m not used to being... admired.”

“Get used to it,” you said before thinking. Your voice came out smaller than intended.

He stepped toward you, closing the short distance between you both. Still at a respectful length, but no longer distant. The ambient glow of the station lights danced across his avatar’s shoulders, catching on subtle metallic threading in the long coat he’d chosen.

“Shall we?” he asked, offering his arm.

The act suddenly felt so... pointed. Symbolic. A thousand subtle cues passed between delegates in this place. Every pair walking together was making a statement.

But then, in a quiet motion, you turned your hand and touched the bend of his elbow. Permission.

In his expression you caught surprise, maybe, or a recalibration. He adjusted instantly, offering his arm in full, his other hand resting behind his back with courtly precision.You tested his bicep briefly, if he noticed he didn't show it.

His voice was low, soft at your ear as you began walking together.

“Thank you for not recoiling,” he murmured. “This form is... experimental.”

You glanced at him sidelong. “You’re handling it well.”

“I’ve studied human posture,” he said, tone just dry enough to be self-aware. “And basic expressions of chivalry .”

“Oh?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He looked down at you, just the faintest glimmer in his eye. “Am I convincing you?”

You exhaled a single laugh. “A little too much.”

Your steps fell into a rhythm as the two of you moved through the grand hall, drawing more than a few curious looks. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

“Let’s get a drink,” you said, nodding toward the curved crystalline bar set into the far wall. Its base glowed with a slow pulse of color. Sleek-bellied glasses and phosphorescent bottles stood in minimalist display behind the counter, flanked by a bartender bot with an absolutely judgmental visor.

Megatron gave a slight nod. “Excellent idea. I believe I’m expected to make small talk soon, and I’d rather do it with a glass in hand.”

The two of you veered toward the bar, your arm still lightly tucked in his, the brush of his sleeve against your skin doing terrible things to your heart rate. You could feel the temperature rising in your own face—not from nerves, exactly, but from the proximity. The attention. And maybe from the fact that he was enjoying it, too. Not smugly. Not with power. But with something approaching pleasure. Delight, even.

The bar was sleeker up close, an art installation as much as a service station. Its surface shifted in subtle, mirrored waves beneath your fingers, like water frozen in the middle of movement. As you approached, Megatron let your arm go, his hand trailing away with practiced grace.

You ordered first, voice clear, posture composed. Megatron followed suit, his tones measured and surprisingly casual. He let you lead, a novelty in itself.

A pair of delegates sidled up beside you taller than either of you, vaguely insectoid, their limbs jointed in six distinct places. They spoke to each other in a dialect you didn’t understand then, in Galactic Basic, just loud enough to catch.

“Oh, how quaint. The human delegation brought representatives.”

“Must be difficult,” the other mused, not unkindly, “to keep such small creatures in sight.”

You felt Megatron shift beside you.

The taller delegate offered what might’ve been a polite nod, their expression unreadable. “Enjoy the festivities,” they added, and glided away, clicking softly as they moved.

Your drink arrived.

You stared into it for a moment before murmuring, “Do you think I count as quaint?”

Megatron’s gaze didn’t move from where the pair had gone. “If they knew anything about you, they’d never risk using the word.”

You glanced up at him. Something in his jaw had set differently. Not anger just... that old stiffness. Like a program running in the background. Like something uncomfortable in the code of his body.

So you touched his elbow lightly. “Come on,” you said, voice soft but purposeful. “Let’s make the rounds.”

You didn’t have to ask twice. He fell into step beside you again, his hand resting behind his back once more. The perfect dignitary.

The two of you slipped into the flow of the event, weaving between delegates, exchanging nods and hellos and the occasional comment. You played your part—answering questions about Earth’s current diplomatic ties to Cybertron, throwing in the occasional joke that flew over everyone’s head but made Megatron tilt his head in that amused little way that meant he got it.

Through the night you couldn't help but steal glances at him. He was handsome. Painfully so, in a way that didn’t seem fair.

Mustering your confident-ambassador-baddie aura you continued to take the lead. One hand clasping a chilly glass you held it ahead of you like the bow of a ship parting the sea of party-goers. The other hand beckoning Megatron occasionally to keep up.

“You carry yourself like royalty.”

You blink. Did you just mishear him?

“Come again?”

He stiffens immediately, eyes narrowing in defence. He regrets the words as soon as they’re spoken.

“That’s not—”

“You’re terrible at this,” you say, a grin playing on your lips.

“At what?”

“Flirting. That was a compliment, wasn’t it?”

“It was meant to be an observation.”

You bob your head playfully and roll your shoulders, hopefully the gesture comes off as foxy. “Sure. An observation with an aura of courtship.”

But eventually, the charm of the event began to turn. The lights felt too hot. The stares too long. The conversations started looping back, becoming redundant. Megatron’s answers became shorter. He leaned in less.

So you pulled back.

You nudged him gently with your shoulder and said, “Too much?”

He exvented quietly.

“Want to disappear?”

“Yes.”

Without ceremony, the two of you slipped through an archway, down a curved hallway lit in soft green, past a suspended sculpture that rotated slowly without sound. The noise of the ballroom faded behind you, replaced by a hush that felt like reprieve.

You found a quiet space tucked into an overlook meant for VIPs. Megatron stood beside you. But something in the posture had shifted. His shoulders were no longer squared. His hands, now clasped at the small of his back, opened and closed in restless intervals.

You leaned on the railing, watching the light show from below. The delegation was in full swing now, the dance floor slowly filling as a low, pulsing rhythm took over the speakers. It was orchestral in structure but deeply physical, percussive in a way that settled into your sternum. Behind you, Megatron remained quiet.

“I know that face,” you said, glancing sideways. “You look like you’re drafting a brutal speech about the flippancy of luxury.”

He didn’t look at you. “I’m calculating the cost of theater,” he said quietly. “How much it takes from a person to wear a mask. And how long before they forget it was a mask at all.”

You turned to face him fully, arms crossed, hip resting against the railing.

“You’re not being fair,” you said. “You did everything right.”

Megatron’s gaze drifted toward you now. The lighting softened the lines of his avatar, made his expression look more human than you’d ever seen it. Tired, but still alert.

“I wasn’t trying to be right,” he said. “Only tolerable.”

The music shifted. Below, couples moved together in deliberate, synchronized steps. One pair spun gently in a half-orbit around another. Someone dipped a partner low, and laughter followed.

“Would you prefer we just disappear entirely?” you asked.

“I prefer this,” he said at last.

You smiled faintly. “I don't mind either.”

He looked at you withdrawn again. “You’re just saying that.”

You took a pause, trying to steady the pulse in your veins urging you into doing impulsive things .“Can I say something?”

His head tilted. Permission.

You stepped a little closer. Enough to be able to lower your voice while still being heard. “You didn’t have to do any of this,” you said. “The diplomacy. The avatar. Playing along. And I know you’ll try to tell yourself you did it for appearances, or the mission. But that’s not true.”

His jaw tensed, just slightly.

“I know it’s not,” you continued. “Because I’ve seen how you are when you’re just doing what you’re told. And this... this wasn’t that.”

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then, softly: “And what do you think this was?”

You swallowed. “Something kind. And... something that’s made me feel very, very happy.”

Megatron looked away, back toward the window.

“You say that like it surprises me,” he said. “But I didn’t come here to make a statement. I came because I thought I might make you smile.”

You blinked, stunned. He wanted this? He planned this? That was—God. That was almost romantic. Too romantic. You felt the elation bloom in your chest, dizzy from what he’d just admitted so casually.

You reached for his hand. And he let you.

The music continued below. The swirl of dancers and delegates became a blur behind the glass.

You squeezed his fingers gently.

“If you wanted to dance,” you said, “I wouldn’t stop you.”

He glanced at you again.

“Do you?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I just know I’d like to stay near you.”

And this time, he stepped closer.

You cue for him to remove his coat by taking the sides of the collar in each hand and guiding it over his shoulders. He took the hint, shugging the garment off and slinging it over the railing. It revealed strong forearms beneath rolled sleeves, a neck just barely visible above the collar. Everything about him feels deliberately understated, and yet you can’t stop looking. You felt your stomach knot.

The music swelled again strings melting into a slow, pulsing rhythm, just enough tempo to guide motion without overwhelming it. Below, the crowd moved in waves.

You turned to face him, heart kicking faster.

“If you’d like to try,” you offered, lifting your hand, “I can lead.”

Megatron looked at you, visibly uncertain.

“I’ve never danced,” he said, as if it were a confession. “Not like this.”

“That’s alright,” you said gently. “I have. We’ll go slow.”

You reached for him, and he took your hand awkwardly, unsure how much pressure was acceptable. You placed your free hand on his shoulder, guiding his other hand to your waist.

“There,” you murmured. “That’s the usual setup.”

He looked down at the contact, then up at you again. “This feels... unconventional.”

“That's because you're thinking too hard,” you said with a small grin.

“I’m trying not to step on you,” he said flatly.

“That’s very sweet,” you teased. “But unnecessary. If you stepped on me I’d forgive you”

He didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth curved only a little. It was something.

You watched his gaze crawl across your shoulders, the line of your neck, your jaw. His eyes landed on your mouth for a beat too long. You swallowed. Hard.

“You’re observing me,” you said.

“I always do.”

Something about the way he said it left you lost for an appropriate response.

One step back. He followed, stiffly. You tried again. He mirrored, a beat late. Every motion was too precise. He was solving a puzzle rather than moving through space.

“You’re overcorrecting,” you murmured.

“I am attempting to mirror your tempo.”

“Okay,” you said softly, “but dancing isn’t just pattern recognition. It’s listening. To me. To the music. To yourself.”

He blinked once. “That’s vague.”

“You’re doing great,” you lied, because you were charmed out of your mind.

He huffed sharply,. “Where should my hands go now?”

“Same place,” you said, biting back a laugh. “We’re not doing a spin yet.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

You smiled up at him. “Exactly. So don’t worry about it.”

He hesitated again. His hands hadn’t moved. His whole form had gone a bit too still. Withdrawn, even.

You looked up at him, tilting your head. “Hey. Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. His brow furrowed faintly. “This feels... unnecessary.”

You stepped back slightly. “Do you want to stop?”

His hand dropped from your waist. “I think I should.”

Your heart stung but you nodded, letting your arms fall, stepping gently away.

“Of course.”

You turned slightly, ready to give him the space he thought he needed.

But his voice stopped you.

“You said I didn’t have to go through all of this for you,” he said. “But I did. I wanted to.”

Your chest rose with your breath.

He looked at you like he just found the answer to a question he hadn’t realized he was asking. His gaze flicks to the side, and he adjusts his sleeve again—same nervous tell. Not ready to meet you where you are. Not yet. But he's still standing here, isn't he?

“You once said I didn’t understand what I was getting into,” you say quietly, “You were right. I didn’t. Not then. But I think I do now.”

He doesnt interrupt.

“That night… when you told me the truth. I should’ve hated you. I wanted to. But instead, I felt—” you pause, licking your lips, “—seen. It terrified me.”

He says nothing, but you can tell: he’s listening.

“You keep showing up like this,” you say gently, your voice low. “It’s getting hard to tell what this is supposed to be.”

His mouth opens like he’s about to deflect.

“Don’t,” you add quickly. “Just—don’t. I’m not trying to corner you. I just want to know.”

You take a breath, fingers brushing your wrist.

“Tell me what this is, Megatron,” you murmur. “Because I’m starting to hope it’s more than it should be.”

He looks at you—on the level—and for a moment, you see it: uncertainty. Caution. Want.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

“Okay,” you say, stepping closer. “Then let me ask something simpler.”

You tilt your chin, steady despite the quaking in your nerves.

“Would it be alright if I kissed you?”

He doesn’t speak. Just nods once. Permission.

You step into him, feeling heat radiating off his holomatter projection. Up close, he smells like ozone and something else, clean metal and the faintest scent of tobacco,, translated into something your brain can interpret.

When you kiss him, it’s not elegant. Your noses brush wrong. Your balance falters a bit. But his hand—warm and unsure—touches your side, steadying you.

His mouth is soft. Stubbled. There’s a moment when you feel him start to respond, just slightly, before he pulls back half an inch.

His eyes are still open. Of course they were.

You breathe against him, stunned.

And then he steps back. Not far. Just enough to look at you fully.

“That,” he says, voice low, “was very brave.”

You smile, half breathless. “I know.”

The satisfaction in his expression was subtle—but it was there.

Your face was at full burn by now, hot blood felt as if it was pooling beneath every pore. It was actually getting a bit too much. You looked away, it was all getting a bit overwhelming. The excitement you were gripping onto tightly the entire night refused to unwind even after your very reckless action.

Little words were exchanged between you as a few comfortable silences passed by. Meanwhile the music had drawn to a close.

The walk back to the launch bay is slower than necessary. Neither of you speak, but the silence isn’t empty. At some point along the empty corridor, you catch him looking at you.

His eyes—human eyes—flick downward, lingering a second longer than is strictly polite. Your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, the slight shift of fabric where your dress settles against your chest.

It’s not leering. It’s curious and innocent in its focus. You bite back a smile, heart thrumming high in your ribs. Cybertronians don’t have this kind of giveaway. You realize that now—how easily you can see where his gaze travels, how easily he betrays his own attention just by forgetting to guard it. When his eyes flick back up and meet yours, there’s no guilt there. No shame.

The launch bay doors slide open. You pause just before the ramp, and Megatron pauses with you. His form flickers and the holomatter projection dissolves into static. He’s there now. Fully. The real deal.

"So," you say, "you were already here."

"Of course," he replies, words reverberating through the thin station air. "I was never far."

The shuttle ramp hisses under the weight of Megatron’s heavy footfalls.

You follow at your own pace, the stairs ahead of you rising almost as high as your shoulders. You hesitate at the base of the first step, eyeing the climb.

Before you can even think about attempting it, a massive shadow falls over you.

You glance up—just as Megatron stoops low, one hand extending.

“Allow me,” he says, voice pitched low, almost dry. But you catch the undercurrent: an old memory. You smile without thinking and step carefully into his waiting palm.

His servos flex slightly beneath you, enclosing you. You sit demurely, hands braced lightly on the broad curve of his fingers. He lifts you smoothly, almost absentmindedly, like you weigh nothing at all.

He doesn’t set you down immediately. Instead, he carries you easily across the shuttle floor, his other hand adjusting the controls with practiced efficiency.

He glances down.

“You’ll stay here,” he says, the faintest flicker of amusement touching his tone. “I prefer to keep you within sight.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile too obviously.

He settles you near the front console, just beside the primary display—a safe, flat surface with enough of an edge to keep you secure. Close enough that if he turns slightly, you’re still within arm’s reach.

He powers up the shuttle. You sit quietly, the rush of takeoff pressing you back just slightly as the shuttle disengages from the station.

The night is ending. The fantasy is folding itself away.

And still, he keeps you close.

For a while, neither of you speak. The stars drift by outside the viewport, streaks of light against the velvet dark. You let your eyes follow them, feeling the hush settle deep into your bones.

Finally, he breaks the silence.

“Well,” he says, voice thoughtful. “What did you think?”

You don’t need to ask what he means. The night. The effort. The strange, human-shaped fantasy he built for you out of smoke and hope.

You consider your answer carefully.

“It was wonderful,” you say honestly. “Strange. Surreal. Like stepping into someone else’s life for a while.”

You shift, folding your hands in your lap.

“But…” you add, looking up at him again, eyes lidded and a smirk playing at your lips—“I think I find you more beguiling like this.”

“Good,” he says quietly. “Because this is the form you’ll see most often.”

There’s no regret in his voice. No apology.

And you find, to your own surprise, that you don’t want one. You lean back slightly, settling in as the shuttle speeds toward home.

___

WOAH big update FINALS ARE OVER YAY. Alexa play Flesh for Fantasy by Billy Idol

#mtmte x reader #megatron x reader #idw transformers #megatron #mtmte #self insert #til all are loved #this charming man

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