Dinobot pins terrorsaur down after a bloody scuffle.
A proposition: “perhaps a truce is in order.”
Dinobot laps up terrorsaur’s spilt energon, nibbling at his neck. He’s in a rut.
“Get off me you—“ TS starts, but is quickly cut off by his own whimpers.
The air is thick with the smell of energon, and their thermal fans set to max.















