In his dreams, Terminus was alive, but never the way Megatron remembered him.
Fond warmth turned to icy horror as the war dragged on, Terminus shaping himself into a monster in Megatron’s recharge.
A shambling Empty with black optical sockets, rending claws, and dripping rust. Pawing at Megatron, mouth agape, so hungry. Denta sharp, like a scraplet, and thirsting for Megatron’s energon. Tearing away his armor, tearing into him, sucking the very life out of him.
Or a Sparkeater made of angles and teeth, his field one of raw hunger, his spark core dark, electric fire crackling over his scorched armor. His fingers turned to talons and his voice a song that haunted Megatron’s audials, while a handful of flexible tentacles wrapped around Megatron, drawing him in, closer and closer.
Or even a Dead Zone abomination, his touch as cold as liquid nitrogen, oily ooze seeping from his seams and tainting Megatron’s own, his optics as red as coals, his glossa snaking over his lips as he rasped, “make me whole, Megatron.”
And worse of all, Terminus was sometimes whole and hale, young and vibrant, holding Megatron close, nuzzling against his face, whispering sweetly in his audial. Fingers stroked ever so gentle, a fusion cannon gleaming on his left arm, his field a warm embrace, as he murmured so soft and silky, “Thief.”
Megatron onlined in a burst, night after night. He trembled, defense protocols humming, his spark throbbing.
He could still feel the deadly kiss of nightmarish fangs, the pleasure-pain grip of thorny tentacles, the icy embrace.
Megatron buried his face in his hands. Night after night, Terminus became a monster of the worse kind.
Just like the one Megatron saw in the mirror.