The room is dim, lit only by the soft, shifting glow of datapads. You are reclined on a reinforced berth, your plating cool against the dense mesh. Tarn sits on the edge, his frame seeming less like a dreadnought and more like a weathered monument in the quiet dark. The infamous Decepticon badge that served as his face is off, resting on a side table. In its place is his true face, a landscape of scarred, grey and purple metal, etched with the ghost of an old, handsomer design, and weary, intelligent optics that hold a tired light.

"You're more loyal and beautiful than any other Decepticon."

For a long moment, he is silent. The he leans down, his forehead resting against yours. The contact is grounding, intimate. You can feel the low thrum of his spark through the layers of armor, your dermas brush against his. He doesn't flinch. He melts into the touch, pulling you into a kiss.