Author's Note:

WARNING! : hot yumminess ahead. Brace yourselves. :D Oh, and Cliffjumper fluff

And, for that those first weeks, no one knew a thing.

Nightstalker crept in and out the silo with the skill Fli-Ni had given to her for creeping around Kaon. In truth, her disposition improved some those weeks as she played with Megatron—both literally and figuratively. She especially loved the fun flights where they would play tag, as foreign as that would sound to any of her fellow Autobots. Sadly, Nightstalker tended to lose those more often than not, but that didn't diminish how much fun they were.

The only thing that put a damper on her day was Wheeljack showing back up.

Now, she couldn't rag that hard on the Autobot. Bulkhead was really happy to see him. But her? No, he still looked at her the way he had the first time he had been at the base, full of distrust and contempt because he remembered her as a Decepticon. Bumblebee said he just hadn't had a chance to get used to her new colors yet, but Nightstalker didn't believe that so easily. After all, she knew his type—stubborn to the core. She would have to move mountains to get his attitude to change.

So, Nightstalker glided around that night, thankful to finally get some quiet after such a busy day. Wheeljack and Bulkhead were talking below at his ship, but she was too far up for them to really see since her black paint blended in with the night.

Nightstalker sighed, turning in relaxed barrel rolls in the skies. Ratchet was getting cranky that she was burning through so much energon, but Nightstalker could only give the quip to think of how many fliers Megatron is supplying and that she was catching up on missed time. After all, flying was soothing, and it chased away the demons of the past—miserable haunting that seemed to come back to her more often than not of late.

Just as she started to slip into her ruminations of who her brother's killer was, a cheery voice filled her audio receptors.

"Niiiiiiiiiightstaaaaaaaaalke r . . . !"

Righting herself with an irritated snort, she said back, "Hello, Cliffjumper."

Why could she not escape from his chatter ANYWHERE she was? She thought for once she was going to have a peaceful flight—!

"What's going up?" he asked.

"Why aren't you recharging?" she shot back.

"Ouch, glad I don't take insult easy. Can't I talk?"

"That's all you ever do," Nightstalker said wryly, rolling her optics. "Can't take a chance to enjoy the silence?"

She could practically envision that cheeky grin of his. "Who, me? Quiet? Nights, I thought you knew me!"

Nightstalker grumbled mildly. "Unfortunately, I do . . ." And Primus knew she wasn't going to have one quiet moment to herself for the rest of the night until she pleaded recharge and collapsed on her berth and bitched at him for the next half hour after that. "What do you want?"

"Just a chat," he said amicably, but Nightstalker could only roll her optics again. "I'm bored. Entertain me."

Nightstalker vented sharply and whirled back to head over the top of the base again. "Cliffjumper, I was having a nice night all to myself before you started pestering me again. And annoying me. And bothering me, and just overall sticking your nose where I don't want it, and I would LOVE to have just ONE night to myself, no one talking forever a minute about absolutely nothing in my audio receptors . . ."

"Aw, c'mon, I'm not THAT bad, am I?"

Venting again, Nightstalker groused to herself, but honestly, in a really weird way, she was glad Cliffjumper had contacted her. Sure, his incessant chatter could disarm a person and make them wish they had never been born with audio receptors, but she was grateful for the distraction he provided from her morbid thoughts.

"Fine," she said begrudgingly. "You're not THAT bad. But don't let that go to your head! You're still bad!"

"Bad in a good way?" he rumbled back.

Nightstalker paused. "Oh?"

"Oh?"

Nightstalker rolled a couple barrel rolls, fluttering her wings. "Hm. That sounds like a flirt."

"It wasn't a flirt."

"Says you. You're trying a bit too hard to be innocent."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not."

Nightstalker growled shortly. "Yes, you ARE. Forget about me killing you—I'll just tell Arcee, and she'll do it for me."

"I told you I wasn't flirting!"

"Yes, you were!"

"Nights!" She heard him make an annoyed sound from over the line. "Look, YOU'RE the one that assumed I was flirting, I was just trying to make small conversation!"

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you," Nightstalker said flippantly. She soared back over the base. "So? What's the deal with you and Arcee anyways?"

Cliffjumper sputtered. "Wh-What?"

Nightstalker did a lazy flip, losing precious altitude before flying upwards again. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. What happened to kinky nights?"

Still, try as hard as she could to unnerve Cliffjumper, all he shot back was a cheeky, "Oh, you say you have kinky sex, Nights?"

"No!" she exploded, heat searing her cheeks at the lie. "Look, what's going on with you and Arcee? What happened to the look in your optics that day she had to confront Airachnid? Where'd that look go?"

There was an uncomfortable silence over the comm. link. "Well . . . Look, I just—It's nothing. What are you? Psychologist?"

With that, he hung up. Nightstalker blinked. Where the heck had that come from?

Before she had time to contemplate it long, Nightstalker turned back to fly over the base again-and saw one ship flying AWAY from the base.

She narrowed her optics. Excuse her? Where were those two going . . . ?

Without delay, and without much thought, Nightstalker trailed Wheeljack's ship, wondering what mischief the two Wreckers could be getting into. It was a stretch as the Jackhammer had stronger thrusters than her, but Nightstalker was able to follow with some difficulty. What REALLY got her, however, is what those two dumb Wreckers were doing.

Just like a Wrecker . . .

What was she supposed to THINK when she saw Wheeljack in epic throw down with this "Dreadwing" character he had tracked for so long? And Bulkhead was right there with him! Just when she thought they had the crafty—and, cowardly—'Con pinned, a blast shook from the ground up.

Nightstalker yelped involuntary at the close quarters in which Bulkhead and Wheeljack had to withstand that blow, but her peril was suddenly made clear when the 'Con transformed. With a painful spark beat, Nightstalker dove for cover behind a rock. That Dreadwing guy was huge! Maybe almost as tall as Optimus? Her spark beat fluttered nervously in her chest when she heard him land near her. She barely took an in cycle, pressing her wings tight so her metal wouldn't clatter together and give her away.

What to do, what to do . . . By the time Nightstalker had gathered enough courage to even THINK of trying to attack Dreadwing, the 'Con had already made off with Bulkhead in tow.

Oh Primus, what am I supposed to do . . . ?

With a belated smack to her face, Nightstalker hurried to the rubble. Surely if Bulkhead made it through fine, Wheeljack could too . . .

Digging, Nightstalker tried to find Wheeljack. She wasn't sure whether she was happy or ready to leak lubricant all over herself when Optimus came with a scowl set in his face. Still, they got Wheeljack uncovered quickly.

"What took you so long, Bulk? Don't tell me riding with Prime has made you—" Wheeljack caught sight of her, and he blinked. His wide optics turned towards where she pointed her thumb. "Soft?"

"If you will not take orders from me, that is one thing," Optimus said strictly to the Wrecker. Nightstalker shuffled her feet and inched away, wings perking nervously at that severe tone of voice. She knew THAT all too well. "But when you place one of MY Autobots in danger-"

"With all due respect," Wheeljack interrupted—oh Primus, how brash was he? Interrupting Optimus—! "Bulkhead knew the risks. Every Wrecker does. Now I'm sure he's just somewhere in this rubble."

Nightstalker cleared her throat. Cold blue optics pinned to her. "Um . . . Not the case . . ."

After explaining what she had seen, consulting with Ratchet, and getting Wheeljack utterly irate under that complexion of his, Nightstalker opted to follow the Jackhammer while Optimus somehow squeezed into the undersized ship. She didn't know what the two could possibly be talking about in there, but she had a feeling that it was much safer on the OUTSIDE than on the inside with all that pent up tension.

Now, when they were scouting the shipping yard Bulkhead's signal had led them to, Nightstalker was stuck in between Wheeljack and Optimus. It was amazing, the difference in these two was. Optimus seemed so UPTIGHT next to the relaxed and nonchalant Wrecker. The 180 flip was a bit disconcerting. What was surreal was the bomb fused to Bulkhead's chassis.

"Oh scrap."

Nightstalker's spark fluttered in her chassis. She was no expert with bombs—Wheeljack set to diffusing it while she stood awkwardly to the side, a third wheel—or fourth, if you counted—

Optimus?

Nightstalker whirled, spark slamming harder. "Scrap guys, where's Optimus!"

Wheeljack just scoffed before giving his full attention to the bomb. "It's like I told ya. When the scrap hits the fan blades, the generals are the first to bail."

"Not Optimus," Nightstalker and Bulkhead said at the same time. Nightstalker's optics flicked to the Wrecker, and she nervously eyed the shipping crates stacked high. "I'm going to go look for him."

"Nightstalker," Bulkhead said nervously, "Don't! You're not fully trained yet, and Dreadwing—"

"Isn't a lightweight, I know," she said. She fanned her wings a moment before taking a deep breath. "Don't worry, I'm not stupid. Just want to make sure Optimus isn't getting into more scrap than he can handle . . ."

It was easy to follow Optimus's booming voice-and then, even easier to follow Dreadwing's blaster fire. Nightstalker got on top of the crates for a better look, and seeing the flashing lights of laser fire, hurried off in that direction. Like Pit was she going to allow any 'Con to get his claws into Optimus. She squeaked and jumped back down when Optimus climbed up, Dreadwing following, to the top of the crates. Nightstalker leapt down and took off running in the effort not to get seen—the element of surprise was about all she had—and ducked around some boxes, uncannily aware of how close the blaster fire was getting. Darned mechs had longer legs than her!

And then, the blaster fire stopped. Nightstalker ducked behind another set of boxes, spark pounding wildly in her chest at the sudden stagnant in battle. What was going on? Spark lurching uncertainly in her chassis, Nightstalker peeked around the edge of her cover—

And promptly screamed when Dreadwing's hand came down inches away from grabbing her wings. Jerking away, she couldn't avoid a powerful backhand to her jaw, and she sprawled back on her back. Dreadwing released a guttural roar, sword arm raising high, and Nightstalker blinked up at the gleam of the blade in terror.

He jerked to a halt. He gasped audibly, lurching back as if having seen a ghost, and he sheathed his blade as quick as he had had it in his hand. He blinked owlishly at her a moment before scowling, lugging his heavy weaponry, and charging past, on the hunt for Optimus.

Nightstalker quaked. Her servo fluttered to her chest as she pressed a hand there in the effort to control her sputtering spark. That was too close—oh Primus—he stopped, why did he STOP?

Standing shakily to her feet, Nightstalker pressed her hands to her mouth and took several deep in cycles, knees knocking as she hobbled in the direction Dreadwing had gone. A guttural roar from Optimus sounded out. Locking her shaking knees, Nightstalker ran towards the sound and was met with this sight:

Dreadwing, pinned beneath a shipping crane, Optimus and Wheeljack and Bulkhead all coming to stand towering above him. Unfortunately, the bomb was still ticking cheerily away on Bulkhead's chest.

"Dreadwing," Optimus ordered, "diffuse the bomb, or fall victim to your own device."

Nightstalker crept closer, eyeing this Decepticon more closely. She could see it in his movements—the way he jutted his chin up even from his prone position, and the bite to his words. "I will gladly sacrifice myself to avenge my brother."

"Then we will in turn gladly join the All Spark with OUR brother."

Nightstalker squeaked—wait, say WHAT? Was he crazy!

"And with you," Wheeljack echoed. He crossed his arms. "You'll never shake us."

He had to be out of his fragging mind. Nightstalker glanced between Optimus and Dreadwing and realized that, yes, Optimus DID think that this was going to work. Her optics flicked to the bomb on Bulkhead's chest. Less than five minutes now.

It was eerie, stifling silence in which the next minute passed, no one budging an inch except for Bulkhead who shuffled uncertainly. As time slipped beneath the four minute mark, Nightstalker felt the need to speak up.

"Optimus, this isn't going to work."

"If he values his life," Optimus said darkly, "then this will."

Nightstalker set her jaw. "But, Optimus—"

"If you are not willing, Nightstalker, then you may return to base."

A frustrated breath left Nightstalker. Contacting the Prime via the comm link, she told him, "Let me torture him. It's the only way to get results."

"I do not condone torture in any form, Nightstalker," was all he would return to her.

Nightstalker shifted, setting her jaw tightly. He really was delusional if he thought this was going to work. She could see it in the mech's optics—he wasn't budging anytime soon. This was a mech that had suffered the loss of his spark brother. He was suffering from spark break, so death would merely be relief from the pain he lived in. Much less, with his death, he was going to get to take out three Autobots with him. What better a martyr for the Decepticons?

Nightstalker shifted. A miniscule click sounded from her wrists. Primus knew she only used these whenever a prisoner was being especially feisty and she had to tie them down. And only Primus knew how much trouble she was going to get into with Optimus and the team after this, but . . . if she didn't do it, they were all going to die for this mech's broken spark.

Letting the chains roll out swiftly, Nightstalker leapt into action and threw them at Optimus. The bot jolted, and it was only the element of surprise that allowed her to catch him off guard. Both ends latched in his shoulders, and Nightstalker transformed, whipping around him three times in her jet form before transforming back to her bipedal mode. She ducked through his legs, entangling him further, and then, she yanked—HARD.

Optimus crashed thunderously to the ground, entangled fully in the barbed chains that were used up to their full length because they weren't meant to hold a bot much bigger than his size. A "one size fits all" policy, if you will, and Nightstalker refused to let herself say sorry—if she did right now, she'd let him loose again. And if she hadn't tied him up, he would stop her.

"Nightstalker! What are you doing?"

"What's necessary," she snapped at the fallen Prime that glared from behind his battle mask. "Don't struggle. Those barbs will only dig deeper."

"Nightstalker," Bulkhead gaped, "wh-what are—what the frag-"

"Shut up," she said. "This is MY job. It's the only way this stubborn aft here," and she kicked Dreadwing's head lightly, "is going to listen." Jumping on the crane, Nightstalker cocked an eyebrow down at Dreadwing. "Now, I used to be a Decepticon. Do you want to know what my function on the Decepticon ship was?"

Dreadwing narrowed his optics, and Optimus ordered, "Nightstalker, stand down!"

"My function," she said, ignoring Optimus completely, "was torturer. Now," and she glanced at the timer, "I can make these last three minutes of life VERY painful for you, or you can simply diffuse the bomb. Choice?"

Dreadwing hiked up his chin. "Do your worst."

Nightstalker flashed a wicked grin, and she felt Optimus start from beside her. "If you really want that."

The tiniest flicker of doubt chased its way across Dreadwing's facial plates at the sudden 180 change in her personality. Waltzing over to where his arms were securely pinned to the ground, she tapped his hand. "Let's start with an old favorite of mine. I'm going to tear your servo to pieces, part by part, wire by wire."

Dreadwing hiked a disturbingly curious brow, almost as if he didn't believe her, but she let him know she was VERY serious when she slammed her claws into his palm and ripped up the plating there. Despite the pain, Dreadwing merely bucked and didn't make a sound. Both Bulkhead and Wheeljack cringed away from the gruesome sight, but Optimus was on the other side and couldn't see.

"Nightstalker! I said stand down! That is an order!"

She ignored him again, but fought Dreadwing's struggling hand down and began the same work on him that she had done to Cliffjumper. Pulling and yanking wires free, taking no time to let it sink it, Nightstalker plunged headlong into giving him the most excruciating pain possible. Energon pooled at her peds. Dreadwing continued to writhe and jerk as she mauled his hand beyond recognition. Even Bulkhead pleaded she stop at some point, even Wheeljack saying it was sick—

But neither moved a servo to help Dreadwing.

"Not good enough yet?" she snarled. She stepped on the broken mass of clumped wiring without a second thought, using her heel to grind them more, and Dreadwing's optics brightened to sun-spot bright in pain. She glanced to Bulkhead and the bomb. "I've still got two minutes. What shall we go for next? Ah, yes, the poison."

"Nightstalker, please, don't! Reconsider!"

Nightstalker's optics flashed at the Prime's words. "I'll reconsider when he agrees to diffuse the bomb!" she snapped. She smiled sickly sweet at Dreadwing and knelt down, trailing her claws down the side of his cheek. He visibly twitched away from her touch, optics studying her closely, almost fearful but almost wondrous. The disconcerting look was almost enough to unnerve Nightstalker. Opening her arm, she brought out the green fluid Airachnid had gifted her with. Dreadwing's optics followed it before focusing back in on her face. "So? Do you like it? Just wait till you see what it can do to you."

Opening the precious vial, Nightstalker dripped a couple drops onto the front of his armor. He flinched, hissing involuntary before refusing to say a word.

Nightstalker hiked up a brow. "Oh? Think we're tough by not making any sounds? Well, that's bothering me. If you want to be silent, then you can STAY silent." Nightstalker dug her claws into his mouth and tried to pry his jaw open. "I'm going to make you DRINK this. Maybe your voice box will completely ruined, and you'll be as silent as Bumblebee!"

The sudden vehemence of her snarl startled Nightstalker, and her spark flipped as she realized that was way more personal than she had intended. If that were true . . . then this vial would be meant for Megatron in retaliation for what he had done to Bumblebee. Still, she pulled and pried at Dreadwing's mouth that he stubbornly kept shut. She dripped a couple more warning drops onto his closed lips, patience wearing thin as the poison ate through his metal and smoke rose, when he suddenly said,

"Very well."

Nightstalker recoiled, not because he had scared her, but because he was . . . willingly giving up. His optics pinned to hers with unnerving calculation, and retreating and putting away the venom, Nightstalker backed up and let Optimus back up when Wheeljack and Bulkhead let Dreadwing up. Raveling up the barbed chains, Nightstalker fluttered her wings nervously as Dreadwing easily diffused the bomb for them. He glanced back once at her and left without a word more.

Nightstalker turned to Optimus and ducked her head dutifully. She knew she was in trouble. Again. Dear Primus, AGAIN. She needed to stop that. She had so many black marks, and if she wasn't careful, Optimus wasn't EVER going to trust her again.

He released a very tight vent. "Nightstalker—"

"Don't tell me you're gonna punish her," Wheeljack interjected with an incredulous laugh. "Dreadwing wasn't going to give in, Prime. You saw that."

Optimus's face barely so much as twitched. "I do not condone the use of torture," Optimus said steadily.

"Oh, so you don't condone my existence? Since I was MADE for torture."

Nightstalker cringed and regretted the words the instant they were out of her mouth. "Sorry . . ." she muttered, touching an elbow self-consciously. There was an awkward beat of silence until Bulkhead's heavy voice spoke up.

"That's what you did to Cliffjumper . . . or, part of it, at least . . ."

Her wings wilted. "Yeah," she mumbled. She looked down on her energon-blue-stained servos and plucked a couple wires from between her joints. "It's pretty sick. But it's what I do best."

Looking at the blood on her hands, Nightstalker felt an invisible hand seize her by the throat, choking her of all breath. Disgust flooded her wiring. Whirling from Optimus, Nightstalker raced to the waterside and dunked her servos in the water and SCRUBBED her hands, scrubbed and scrubbed until her hands were clean, but for some reason that wasn't enough. Frustrated lubricant beaded in her optics, and, clenching wings and jaw tightly, she hit the surface of the water, splashing water up against her.

That's all I'm good for, isn't it? Just sick, sick torture!

She hadn't felt so disgusted with herself in a long time. She had just got herself on their good side and then she fragging ruined it! Nightstalker's claws gripped into tight fists. She had done nothing but fail when Cliffjumper and Arcee tried to teach her how to fight correctly, her forte wasn't even in the medical area, or hacking, or anything—!

Just torture.

Will I never escape my past?

Faintly, Nightstalker realized that Wheeljack and Bulkhead were pleading her case some with the fact that none of them would be alive if it weren't for her—which Nightstalker was absolutely 100% certain of, Dreadwing would have never cracked—but Optimus's voice finally cut through the argument.

"I will speak with Nightstalker back at base."

Her wings fluttered nervously. She knew that tone all too well. Primus, she was probably fit for the scrap heap in Optimus's eyes now . . . First she tortures Cliffjumper, then she tries to kill Optimus, and now she disobeyed his order and tortured someone right in front of him . . .

Guess I'll see you soon, Fli-Ni.

Nightstalker followed Optimus with her helm tucked low as he brought her to the back of the silo where he could grill her without interruption. When he stopped and turned around, facing her with legs akimbo and arms crossed, blue optics drilling into her, Nightstalker knew he was daring her to give an explanation.

Taking a deep breath, she dared.

"Dreadwing wasn't going to give in," she rushed out. "I've tortured his type too many times before, Optimus, I KNOW he wasn't going to give in. Remember? Bumblebee killed his brother Skyquake? Dreadwing's suffering spark break, so trust me when I say he'd rather die than keep going, so you would just essentially would be putting him out of his misery. And then he'd get the glory of taking down both Bulkhead and Wheeljack AND you and me all in one go, so he'd be perfectly fine with being an honored Decepticon martyr since honor is everything to him, clearly, and . . . and . . ."

Stumbling to a halt, Nightstalker bit her lip and ducked her head again. After an intensely long moment, Optimus finally stated, "I do not condone torture on any level, Nightstalker." She flinched instinctively. "And do not tell me that you were made to torture, you chose when you were younger to take up the art of torture."

Nightstalker cringed at the low blow, wings flopping flat. There was a beat of silence as Optimus considered the options, and finally, he said, "But I cannot turn a blind optic to the fact that without your aid, we may or may not have made it out of that predicament alive. However, you broke protocol." Nightstalker tensed, waiting for the punishment.

"I am willing to . . . forget this incident happened if you would be willing to tell me where you have been sneaking off to in the dead of night."

Nightstalker's head jerked up, and her optics widened as round as saucers before she was able to control her facial expressions again, and she denied, "I've just been having some nightly flights, you know I like the night," but the damage had already been done. The Prime's optics narrowed, and he took a dangerous step forward. Nightstalker shrank when he towered over her.

"Nightstalker," Optimus said lowly, "I highly suggest you tell the truth. You tread on thin ice as it is."

Nightstalker felt her spinal strut suddenly straighten as she was tired of being intimidated by Optimus. He loomed over her predatorial, his fingers twitching, his optics blazing a bit too bright, and the heat of anger practically wafting from his body. When she hesitated in her answer, one of his servos snapped to her shoulder and dragged her in close. Nightstalker's spark jumped—he wasn't really going to be violent, was he? Before she had a chance to see what Orion had in store for her, she blurted out, "Fine! I'm fragging Megatron!"

Optimus jolted back like he had been burned. His servo leapt from her shoulder, and any arousal he had gathered through his heated anger turned cold as ice in shock, as if he hadn't heard her right. Nightstalker fluttered her wings nervously.

" . . . You what?"

Nightstalker shivered at the steely cold cut of his voice.

Oh Primus, save me a spot next to you, I wasn't really all that bad, was I? Oh, frag, I was, I'm sorry . . . Frag, I'm going to the Pit . . .

"I—" This time, Nightstalker stumbled over her words, glossia clotting anxiously. "I—I'm f-frag—I'm—" Shaking violently, Nightstalker shrank backwards. She didn't have the cogs to say it again.

His optics darkened. Nightstalker felt her knees wobble. "You are fragging Megatron again," Optimus growled. Nightstalker backed away instinctively at his lethal tone, even more shocked at the curse Optimus used. Optimus NEVER cursed. EVER.

"Nightstalker, in the VERY least, that is worth a court marshal and expulsion from the Autobot army."

Nightstalker felt the world's air pressure suddenly drop, and a sudden sick feeling clenched her energon tanks. Please, that was the LEAST he could do to her. Primus, he could easily have her terminated! A woozy spell took her before she righted her equilibrium.

"So why don't you just kill me?" she muttered bitterly. "Seems I've caused enough trouble and this Autobot thing isn't working out for me. It'd save you a lot of hassle in the long run."

There was a tense beat of silence before a heavy sigh decompressed from Optimus. "Nightstalker," he said with more strained patience than before, "don't say that." There was a pause. "WHY?"

Nightstalker clenched her servos. Her orange optics glittered up at him. "Because when he frags me I can see Megatronus in him!"

Optimus recoiled as if struck. He even staggered back a step. His spark thundered painfully in his chassis. He peeled his glossia from the roof of his mouth.

"Megatronus?"

Optimus's fingers twitched. For him, it was a mixture of emotion as he looked down on this sultry femme before him. Shock, mainly. Secondly, an unnerving amount of restraint for the lust overcoming him by the moment. Orion's fingers twitched every time his optics caught sight of the bare protoform of her thighs. Anger. Pure, white hot anger every time he looked at her for what she had done, what she put him through without even knowing it, and the audacity she had to tell him this. Orion and the Prime warred back and forth on everything, but one feeling was universal.

JEALOUSY.

Their sparks raged against the inside of his chassis. She would frag MEGATRON over him? He was Prime! He was better than that wretched silver beast! MEGATRONOUS? His best friend! His optics were blazing almost white, and Nightstalker was twitching in a combination of fear and wonder at his violent emotions.

Go on. Take her. You know you want it.

A tight vent escaped his body. No, no he didn't—

Don't even try to lie about it now! You want her! Look at her! Primus, that black all over does wicked things to those curves . . . Just take her. Ravage her. Prove that you're better than Megatron AND Megatronus. Primus, ram that spike in her and make her scream our name, not his!

Optimus's optics darkened another shade, this time into an eerily familiar shade; only, it was blue . . . not red.

Nightstalker had just enough time to widen her optics before Optimus seized her and kissed her—HARD.

OH FRAG—!

Nightstalker tried to squirm away, but only succeeded in having the Prime's arm pin her down more firmly against his body, and oh Primus, why hadn't she realized that heat was arousal, not anger! She wilted against him, slumping almost limp as he ravished her mouth hungrily, fingers digging grooves into her back. Oh Primus, it WAS anger, oh Primus, anger and arousal and fucking hot . . . !

Nightstalker twitched, coming back to her senses with a muffled gasp. Squirming her hands up, Nightstalker pressed against Optimus's broad shoulders. Let go! Let me go! Let me go—!

All thought was wiped from her mind when she heard Optimus groan lowly and drag his teeth that caught bottom lip between them. A shiver chased down her spinal strut, and Nightstalker felt herself warming in unmentionable regions . . .

Oh Primus, I'm getting seduced by Optimus Prime. Oh, slaggit that sounded hot, fucking ravished by Optimus Prime, oh Primus that's hot . . .

Her spark sputtered a mile a minute in her chassis, and she felt her servos sliding up to grasp at those deliciously ornament audio receptors, and Optimus moaned at the touch, hot spots reacting almost violently. Hot breath seared her used lips before he devoured her again, servo dipping lower to her waist—dangerously lower. Nightstalker whimpered when Optimus suckled her lips and that hand gripped at the bare protoform of her thigh. A sultry moan slid past Optimus's lips when he finally got that supple thigh in his hand. Nightstalker trembled.

Oh Primus, WHY is it so hot when those with the most control just snap and lose it! Oh Primus, ngh . . . Frag, oh frag, Megatron never kissed me like this—! Optimus ruined her thought pattern when his glossia demanded entrance to her mouth, and Nightstalker all too willingly allowed him to. Optimus's servo slid up her silky smooth thigh before his hungry fingers dug beneath her armor, playing with the latches to strip her.

Oh scrap, I'm already wet, fuck humans have the best explicatives—ah, ah, SHIT he can just cream me with his lips alone—!

Nightstalker quivered in his arms, and he finally let her catch a desperate breath when his mouth moved from her lips to her exposed neck cables. A tiny little moan escaped Nightstalker when Optimus's ragged gasp caught a cable in his mouth, between his teeth, and he suckled there, glossia playing with her most exquisitely.

Nightstalker panted, barely able to breathe. "Oh, FRAG, Optimus—oh frag, Optimus—Primus—right there—!" A tiny mewl escaped her vocals. "Optimus, frag me! Fraggit, please!"

He hissed, pulling on that neck cable almost painfully, and he hesitated for a half instant.

With a wild cry, Optimus threw her down. Nightstalker tumbled on her back, lust racing in her systems as she sprawled on her back. The Prime groaned audibly, shaking as he turned his optics away from the lusty sight of her sprawled out on her back, Primus, how easy it would be—!

The guilt festered as quickly as the desire had come. Shaking, the Prime bolted from the room, unable to even admit or explain to Nightstalker what had just happened. Nightstalker sat on the ground, optics wide, trying to understand that Optimus had just about took and fragged her, and she sat there, twitching with the urge to finish herself off or go find Megatron with an emergency for his eager spike, or just sit and let it all fade away.