Ha ha. I totally didn’t write this. She really is quite sad some days, with her obsessions. It made me laugh, at least. :> 
 
 
   “D-Damn him,” she gasped out quickly.
 It was a routine attack, in a way they all were. The Decepticons 
would attack, crush local resistance, and caputre some energon. Everything was 
going great, til –he- showed up.
 
 “You need to do better then that, Fusillade!”
 “Wow, I don’t even need to worry about fixing my paint job!”
 “Careful there! Femmes with claws get in trouble!”
 “Arrogant –bastard-,” she hissed out. 
 The room was small, almost confining, with the scent of oils and 
weapon lubricants. Her fingers slid along her dry port roughly, forcing it to 
lubricate at the soft shivers of pleasure that went through her.
 “You need to do better then that, Fusillade!” she heard his 
voice mock from her memories.
 She growled, “Better you fucker?! How’s this!” She gasped out 
suddenly as she slid a finger up into herself, stroking and pumping into her 
increasingly more willing port. 
 Her hips began to subconsciously rock against her finger, her 
chest heaving…
 “…can…you…feel that….Jetfire…huh?! I’ll beat you…,” she 
groaned quietly, trying to keep her voice low so the others wouldn’t hear.
 “Wow, I don’t even need to worry about fixing my paint job!” she 
heard him again, as he danced away from her laserfire.
 She gasped as her juices seeped down to stain her thighs, her 
hand moving to grasp at the edge of the locker for support, “…we’ll see…next…
oooogh…”
  “Leaving so soon? I’m almost sad,” she heard him again…
 “F-fucker…,” she gasped out as she furiously stroked her own 
personal ‘pleasure button’ and collapsed to the floor, thrashing in orgasmic 
pleasure, before thumping spent against the wall of the locker.
 
 
Ramjet peered at the lockers for a moment, “Fusillade’s diddling herself 
again…”
Thrust nodded and sighed, “She does that every time she loses to Jetfire…”
 Snare smirked, “Ha! If she were as adept as I with long range 
sniping, she wouldn’t need to fear such things!”
 “Where is your rifle anyway, Snare,” Ramjet muttered.
 “In the storage locker,” Snare replied, before blanching, “oh 
dear!”
 A keen of angry pleasure came from the locker, “Damn you 
JETFIIIIRE!!”