Hover's systems slipped into recharge mode gradually, defrag protocols running in the background as her consciousness drifted. The last thing she registered was the quiet hum of the *Nemesis* around her, the comfort of her small quarters, the—

The dream started the way dreams do—without logic, without preamble.

She was in Megatron's quarters. Somehow she knew it was his space even though she'd never been there, the dream-logic supplying details her conscious mind had never observed. Larger than hers, obviously. More austere. A berth that could actually accommodate his frame size.

And Megatron himself, standing with his back to her, reviewing something on a datapad.

"Lord Megatron," she heard herself say, and her voice sounded wrong—too confident, too certain.

He turned, and the way he looked at her made her cooling fans kick on. Not the dismissive glance he usually gave her. Not the mild interest when she did something competent. This was heat. Want. Hunger.

"Hover." His voice rumbled through her audials, deeper than normal, resonating in her chest plating. "I've been waiting for you."

Dream-logic. She should question this. Should wonder why he'd be waiting, why she was here, why her frame felt hot and oversensitive already. But the dream swept her along, and she found herself moving closer.

"You called for me?" That confident voice again, not quite hers but coming from her vocalizer anyway.

"I did." He set down the datapad, his optics never leaving her. "You've been... distracting me."

"Have I?"

"Considerably." He was moving now, closing the distance between them with deliberate steps. "Walking through my ship. Working in that lab. Existing in my peripheral vision constantly."

Her spark pulsed faster. This wasn't real—couldn't be real—but her systems were responding like it was. Charge building in her lines, her interface protocols pinging online without her conscious input.

"I apologize, my lord." But there was no apology in her tone.

"No you don't." He was in front of her now, massive and imposing and radiating heat. One hand came up to trace the curve of her jaw, surprisingly gentle. "You know exactly what you do."

"And what's that?"

"Make me want you." His thumb brushed across her lower lip plating. "Make me think about things I have no time for. Make me imagine how you'd look beneath me."

Her systems stuttered. "Lord Megatron—"

"Just Megatron. Here. Now." His other hand found her waist, pulled her closer. "Tell me you don't want this and I'll let you go."

She should say no. Should maintain professionalism, hierarchy, all the reasons this was impossible. But this was a dream, and in dreams you could have things you'd never admit to wanting.

"I want this," she whispered.

The kiss was inevitable—his mouth claiming hers with an intensity that made her knees weak. She gripped his chest plating for balance, her much smaller frame pressed against his, and felt the rumble of his engine through her sensors.

When he pulled back, his optics were blazing. "Berth. Now."

She went, and he followed, the dream shifting them seamlessly so she was on her back on his berth and he was looming over her, one hand braced beside her head.

"I'm going to take you apart," he said, voice low and dark with promise. "Slowly. Thoroughly. Until you can't remember anything but my name."

"Yes." It came out as a gasp.

His hands moved to her chest, panels opening with practiced ease—dream-logic again, because she'd never shown him how they worked. But it didn't matter because his fingers were on her protoform now, tracing the sensitive cables and mesh, making her arch into his touch.

"So responsive," he murmured. "I wonder how much you can take."

Her own hands were moving, finding the seams of his armor, desperate to touch him back. He allowed it, his chestplate opening to reveal the powerful systems beneath, the glow of his spark chamber visible through multiple layers of protective plating.

"Beautiful," she breathed, because he was—all that power and strength barely contained.

"You haven't seen anything yet." His hand slid down her frame, found her interface panel. "Open for me."

Her panel slid aside without conscious command, her valve already slick with lubricant, external node pulsing with need. Megatron made a satisfied sound, one large finger tracing through the fluid, circling her node with just enough pressure to make her whimper.

"Already so wet," he observed. "Have you thought about this before? Imagined me touching you like this?"

"Yes," she admitted, because what did it matter in a dream?

"Good." He pushed one finger into her valve, stretching her, and she cried out at the sensation. "Because I'm going to make sure reality exceeds your imagination."

He worked her carefully despite his size, adding a second finger, then a third, stretching her while his thumb maintained steady pressure on her node. The pleasure built rapidly, her systems heating, her field reaching for his desperately.

"That's it," he encouraged. "Take what you need."

She was close already, systems spiraling toward overload embarrassingly fast. But before she could tip over, he withdrew his hand, leaving her gasping and frustrated.

"Not yet," he said. "You overload when I'm inside you."

His own panel opened, spike pressurizing with a hiss of hydraulics. It was proportional to his frame—which meant massive, intimidating, highlighted with biolights that pulsed in time with his spark.

Hover's optics widened. "That's not going to—"

"It will." He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his spike already slick with pre-fluid. "Trust me."

Then he was pushing in, slowly, inexorably, stretching her valve to its limits. The burn of it was intense but not quite painful, her self-repair systems already adjusting, mesh expanding to accommodate him. By the time he was fully seated, she felt impossibly full, every sensor in her valve firing at maximum sensitivity.

"Primus," she gasped. "You're so—"

"Big?" There was dark amusement in his voice. "Deep?" He rolled his hips slightly, making her keen. "Filling you completely?"

"Yes—all of it—"

"Good." He started moving, long slow thrusts that dragged against every sensor cluster. "Because I'm going to ruin you for anyone else."

The rhythm he set was devastating—hard enough to make her see static, but controlled enough that she couldn't quite reach overload. He kept her right on the edge, one hand gripping her hip, the other braced beside her head, his field overwhelming hers with sheer dominance.

"Touch yourself," he commanded. "I want to feel you squeeze around me when you overload."

Her hand slid between them, finding her node, and the moment she touched it the pleasure spiked impossibly higher. She was babbling now, words spilling out without filter—his name, pleas for more, harder, faster, please—

"That's it," he growled. "Come for me. Now."

Her overload hit like an explosion, every system whiting out, valve clamping down rhythmically on his spike. She felt him follow her over, his frame locking up, the flood of transfluid hot inside her, biolights flaring so bright she had to close her optics.

The pleasure seemed to last forever, rolling through her in waves, until finally—

---

Hover onlined with a gasp, systems rebooting abruptly from recharge.

She was in her quarters. Alone. In her berth.

Her interface panel was hot, valve cycling and slick with lubricant, her entire lower frame aching with unfulfilled charge. Her cooling fans were running at maximum, and she could feel the sticky residue of actual transfluid that her frame had produced in response to the dream.

"Frag," she whispered to the empty room.

A wet dream. An actual, literal wet dream about Megatron. About being fragged by Megatron specifically, in explicit detail her recharging processor had apparently conjured without permission.

She lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to process what had just happened. Her valve was still throbbing, still slick, her node still pulsing with need. The dream had brought her right to the edge but not quite over—a recharge cycle interrupted before the full release.

She could finish it. Could slide her hand down, touch herself, bring herself to actual overload while the dream was still fresh in her memory banks.

She did exactly that.

Her fingers found her node, already oversensitive from the dream, and she worked it in tight circles. The other hand pressed against her valve, two fingers sliding in easily with how slick she was. It didn't take long—she was already wound so tight from the dream that a few well-placed touches had her tumbling over the edge, muffling her sounds in her arm as the overload crashed through her.

When she came down, venting hard, staring at the ceiling of her quarters, one thought crystallized with uncomfortable, mortifying, clarity:

She was in so much trouble.

Because that dream—that fragging dream—had felt good. Too good. Good enough that some part of her traitorous processor wanted it to be real, wanted to know if Megatron would actually look at her like that, touch her like that, frag her like that.

She'd just had a wet dream about Megatron.

Megatron. Her leader. The mech who'd been teaching her about Cybertronian culture and told her old war stories like a grandfather tells their grandchild. This was the equivalent of having a sex dream about your teacher and then having to look them in the optics the next day during lessons.

"Oh my god," she whispered to the empty room, covering her face with both hands. "Oh my god, I can't—"

She'd have to see him tomorrow. Probably for another briefing or mission. And she'd have to stand there knowing exactly what her recharge cycle had conjured up. Knowing in explicit detail what dream-version-of-him had done to her. What she'd let him do. What she'd begged him to do.

The worst part? It had felt good. Too good. Her frame was still buzzing with residual charge, her valve still sensitive, and some absolutely traitorous part of her processor was already filing away the memory in her personal archives like it was something she might want to... reference later.

"No," she told herself firmly. "Absolutely not. This was a glitch. A random firing of neurons—or whatever the Cybertronian equivalent is. It doesn't mean anything."

Except she could still feel the phantom sensation of his hands on her frame. Could still hear his voice rumbling through her audials. Could still remember the heat of his optics when he'd looked at her like she was something he wanted to devour.

She was going to have to face him tomorrow. Look him in the optics. Probably report for training or surveillance or stroke his ego some way or another. And she was going to have to act completely normal while knowing her recharge protocols had produced that.

Hover grabbed a cleaning cloth more aggressively than necessary and started wiping away the evidence of her dream. Maybe if she worked hard enough at pretending it never happened, she could convince herself it didn't matter.

(It mattered. It mattered so much she was already dreading the next time she had to be in the same room with him, terrified he'd somehow be able to tell just by looking at her.)

"This is fine," she muttered, throwing the cloth in the cleaning chute with more force than necessary. "Everything is fine. It was just a stupid dream. It doesn't mean anything. Tomorrow will be completely normal."

Tomorrow was not, in fact, going to be completely normal.

But she'd worry about that when she had to face him in the morning and try not to remember what dream-him had said about ruining her for anyone else.

“F-Frag you always look so good like this,” Rodimus gasped below him, one of his optics closing as Drift ground down onto Rodimus’s spike.

Drift smiled, slowly riding Rodimus and watching his face change with pleasure. The slow, deep, penetration always made Rodimus make the best faces. Jaw slack, optics fluttering. This is why Drift liked to be on top. He got the best views from up here.

“On the contrary,” he hummed and traced a few seams on Rodimus’ chassis with teasing servos, “I think that you look the best like this. Heh, I get to see everything.”

Leaning down, their lips met in a chaste kiss before Drift leaned back to get a good look at Rodimus. They had been together for quite a while now, and tonight was the night. They had both decided that this was it, and that they were both ready.

They were going to spark bond.

Drift was the first to open up his chassis, exposing his bright spark to the dim room. Below him Rodimus looked amazed—the light danced off his glossy armor is the loveliest of ways.

Rodimus bit his lower lip and followed suit. His own chassis opened. Rodimus’ spark didn’t look exactly like Drifts. It was somehow dimmer, more shimmery, and a slight green color. Their combined light made a pleasant aquamarine.

“You ready?” Rodimus seemed nervous, but there was an undertone in his voice that was unmistakably excited. Rodimus had been the one to suggest the bonding in the first place.

Drift nodded and gently eased their sparks closer. It was like watching water flow through space. Tendrils of light floated out from the center of their sparks and gently touched. The movements were almost exploratory as they eased closer, but the sensation was already overwhelming.

It wasn’t like an out of body experience as some had described, but more of an extension. Drift could still feel himself, and he could feel Rodimus at the same time. Their sensations melded, and Drift gasped as he felt his own valve cycle around Rodimus’ spike; his own sensitivity heightening as their sensor nets became one.

Drift shuddered as he started to move his hips again. Over sensitive and yet gluttonous for more, he gasped as the duo sensation drew out a mini overload. By the sound of it, Rodimus was also feeling overwhelmed.

The charge between them built; both in their arrays and in their sparks. The tendrils were completely intertwined and had created a bridge between their sparks where a steady charge was flowing.

The overload that hit Drift came suddenly and hard. His valve cycled down on Rodimus spike just as a heavy charge went through their bond. He yelped at the force of it, and Rodimus also overloaded with a choked whine.

The resulting discharge surged between their sparks, and forced them apart with a violent burst of energy. Rodimus’ optics blinked rapidly, and various warnings flashed across Drifts HUD. He almost offlined from the sensation but he managed to stay awake.

Rodimus wasn’t so lucky, and Drift vented harshly as he watched his offline face. Inside his spark he felt different. Like he wasn’t alone. Like a part of Rodimus had stayed behind. He could feel Rodimus’ contentment as he stayed offline, and Drift laughed softly to himself.

It was overwhelming in the best of ways.

He watched as Rodimus slowly came online, and he smiled when Rodimus blinked blearily at him. Poor thing looked shell shocked.

“Whoa….” He said finally and Drift laughed and brushed their noses.