Thundercracker's Fate
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Chapter 5: Prelude
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Citrine was feeling exhausted amongst other things. How many times was the Prime going to take her? He'd overloaded three times already and was well on his way to the fourth, and yet showed no sign of tiring or becoming sated. At the rate he was going, it would be about twelve before her shift in the medbay the next morning. Currently he had her kneeling on one of the large chairs in his quarters, her arms wrapped around the back of it, her legs spread apart and her aft angled outward for access. He'd seen Megatron spiking Starscream in the same position atop Megatron's throne. The difference was that the Autobot commander moved smoothly and gently, whereas Megatron had been generating sparks as metal collided with metal at every unpleasant thrust.
She stared across the room at the berth where they'd been not all that long ago, a disarray of cushions and a transfluid spill attesting to what had happened there. Citrine focused on the spill, the thick silvery fluid oozing down the edge of the berth and dripping to the floor. He'd probably make her clean it up afterwards, just to add insult to injury. It was degrading enough that her favors had been given away in a game of cards, but to have to tidy up after having just been raped... Ratchet and Wheeljack always made her clean up afterward; though justifiably, cleaning up the quarters the three of them shared was part of her duties.
A deep rumbling from inside the prime's chest signaled that the sexual charge within him had grown to near-overload levels, and Citrine braced herself for the oncoming finishing thrusts, which as she'd learned would be significantly stronger and harder than the others. After tonight, the usual romp in the berth with Ratchet would seem like a relaxing evening.
And when Optimus overloaded, he gripped her tightly and pulled her against his heaving frame, howling as the massive charge released, his huge hand wrapping around her slender midriff. His other hand held her head and throat.
Citrine bit down on her lip, trying not to scream despite the fact that no sound would come out. He could probably feel her reaction, and she wouldn't give the Autobot leader the satisfaction of a response. And she succeeded... mostly. His angle changed halfway through the climax and she couldn't help but cry out mutely as his spike stroked fiercely against a set of sensory nodes that had surprisingly gone unmolested by him so far.
Optimus crumpled slightly forward as the last of the overload played out, the great mech moaning and shuddering as the pump deep inside his groin squeezed out the last bit of transfluid from the reservoir. His knee came up to brace himself against the seat of the chair. His hand still curled about her midriff, supporting her now as she'd gone limp, having overloaded herself this time.
She'd been determined not to—so determined not to enjoy a single moment of it. It was bad enough when the moody CMO and the loose-screw engineer decided to tag team her and see how quickly they could break her resistance with pleasure and turn her into a quivering, strutless mess—and they always won in the end, to her embarrassment. But this was the Autobot leader—the Matrix Bearer, the Favored One, the Torch of Hope.
And now she hung pathetically in his grip, his spike still twitching inside of her, the femme sobbing in disgust at her defeat in the berth.
To her surprise, when Optimus eventually withdrew, he lifted her, sat on the chair himself, and then sat her in his lap, cradling her gently. "Finally," he said softly. "I wondered how long it would take to break you."
If she'd not been voiceless, she would have bitterly hissed that he'd not broken her. But all she could do was to wipe away her tears and glower defiantly at him.
His head cocked slightly to the side and he chuckled slightly. "Ever resistant. You'd make a good Autobot," he chuckled.
Not caring what Optimus did or what Ratchet would do later either, she lashed out, slapping him across the battle-mask. And when she went to strike again, he caught her hand and pressed it to her side. "There's no need for that," he said, unphased by the attack. And to her surprise he lowered his mask, revealing the face she'd never seen before.
He studied her for a while, optics roving her features, and then to her surprise he pulled her close and placed a tender kiss upon her lips. But when he did so again, she resisted, turning her face to the side so that his mouth found her jawline instead. Instead of pressing the matter, Optimus rose, carrying her to the door opposite the berthroom's entrance. "Let's wash you up. I want you nice and clean for what comes next."
It was no surprise that behind the door was a washroom with a rack large enough to handle someone of twice his size. And he carried her into the rack, set her down, turned the water on, and began to bathe her. To her embarrassment, he drew out the hose and began to wash her thoroughly inside and out, flushing every drop of his transfluid out of her seams and valve, following with soap, and then with a hot rinse. At least Ratchet allowed her the dignity of bathing herself.
Worse yet, when Optimus finally decreed her clean and told her to step out and dry off, there was Jazz, standing in the doorway to the washroom with a huge towel in his hands. Just beyond him was Prowl, standing with his arms crossed over his waist. Both looked frighteningly smug.
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"Thundercracker's Fate" continues in Chapter 6: "A Rude Awakening"
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Thank you for reading!