You are stretched out on the heavy mesh of Tarn's berth, your helm resting against his thigh armor. His servo, rests with gentleness on your shoulder plating, his digit tracing repetitive patterns over a seam. Then, he begins to speak. But it is not speech. It is a low, resonant hum, a vibration that originated deep within his core and travelled through his frame. Then, the words come, woven into a melody, like a Cybertronian opera.

"Your spark's pulse, a silent drum against the void~ A rhythm to which my own is forever deployed~ But here, in the stillness, a different truth burns~ The universe turns, and for you, my spark yearns~"

His voice, the most feared instrument in the galaxy, is now an instrument of breathtaking intimacy. It doesn't command; it caresses. It doesn't shatter; it soothes. The harmonics, usually weapons, are now layers of emotion, a vibrato of longing, a deeper bass note of possession, a high, clear thread of something that might, in a less disciplined mech, be called tenderness. The poetry is his own, you realize. Raw, unpolished, and devastatingly sincere.