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Summary
“Who sent you?” Elita asks, her voice measured, her grip on the femme’s throat cables loosening, just a bit, and the other took a desperate in-vent in, fans clicking on. Her field was palpable of fear and panic, and her claws, both of them were held together by Elita's other servo, wriggled helplessly.
It was pathetic, really, and Elita couldn't help but stare in the fascination of the obscurity of the situation. The Decepticon brand on the Femme's palms is an even split, forming a perfect face of the icon when they splay out together in her bout of twitching.
“My CO! He said I have to get something important from your office, if I want to get back to base with them—”
₊˚ෆ
AKA Elita frags a dumb failed spy Decepticon into stupid-town. What undefined vorns of sexual celibacy due to external conflict does to a pink femme.
Series
- Part 1 of consumption
