have some hot steaming garbage

[sparkwhisperer]

Who: Tarn and ???
Where: around
When: sex pollen time
What: Fuck this trash heap
Warnings: smut

[A- Outside the city]

He's restless. After weeks of managing to avoid most everyone, Tarn finds himself with a lot of pent up energy to let out. Leaving the base, and the prying eyes that come with it, far behind, he quickly finds himself just outside the city.

Still alone, but at least able to move around and get some frustration out, he paces an open field teeming with local wildlife and a strange flowering plant. Tarn might think it was beautiful if he was not being distracted by what could only be described as a full scale Transformation binge. He leaves deep gouges in the dirt as the rapid fire transformation disturbs the local flora. Spores from the flower drift through the air, getting caught in the cracks in his armor and recesses of his treads. The pollen seeps through the cracks in his mask, trapping itself against his face.

He sputters and coughs, brushing at his plating and trying to clear his vents. Unfortunately for him, it’s already too late.

Only minutes later, heat begins curling inside him. Tarn groans, trying to flush his system as he wanders in useless circles, dazed.

Something is very wrong with him. He needs to get out of this field.

Tarn's frame desperately tries to expel heat as he stumbles free from the patch of flowers, attempting to return to his much needed solitude at the Decepticon base. He can handle this himself.



[B-Dececpticon Base]

Heat engulfs Tarn as he ruts uselessly against his berth; having finally made it successfully to his habsuite. His interface array is blazing as lubricant leaks desperately from its seams.

With his processor spinning, he tries to control himself. This is ridiculous, and shameful, and he isn’t sure how to handle this himself.

a low moan escapes Tarn as he curls in on himself, fingers beginning to probe gently at his outrageously sensitive pelvic plating.

He just hopes that no one will be able to hear him.

Comments

B

[phase6kindofbot]

Sixshot didn't actually hear him. It's just Tarn left a trail of Tarn-Scented booty call all the way back to the base.

A long tongue joins Tarn's fingers in the probing, licking between the digits.

Re: B

[sparkwhisperer]

He doesn't even hear Sixshot come in. Too wrapped up in himself, he simply moans at the new pang of wet pleasure against his hot plating.

He does eventually find it within to acknowledge that he is not alone.

He moans Sixshot's name, unfurling from curled position to look down at the massive wolf with lust clouded optics.

"There's something wrong with me..."

Long forgotten in his haze of pleasure, are the events of prom, and he is left with simply a familiar lover. He thinks that,perhaps, the Phase Sixer is the best choice to chase away this infuriating arousal plaguing his circuts.

[phase6kindofbot]

The rumble Sixshot makes is deep enough to shake the walls. His plating was steaming hot, his internal temps so high that Tarn's plating felt almost cool against his tongue as he runs it over dark purple plating.

The taste and smell of lube consumes his high functions for the longest of moments and he nearly doesn't manage to will an answer up for Tarn. It tales a few mores seconds and Sixshot has to still his tongue for a long moment, optics narrowing in concentration.

"Flowers."

That's really the end of Sixshot's willpower there. He's busy climbing onto the bed with Tarn after that, tongue trailing up the mech's abdominal plates.

[sparkwhisperer]

Tarn arches into Sixshot's tongue as it travels up his belly, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. His fingers hook desperately into the Phase Sixer's plating, trying to pull him closer.

He barely even registers that Sixshot has said anything. When he does, all he can really manage is a short nod. Tarn opens his mouth to try to ask how long the effects will last. Instead, another low moan escapes him as his burning interface array snaps open.

He bucks under the wolf, grinding his dripping valve against any bits of armor that he can reach.

[phase6kindofbot]

Sixshot's plating pops apart at the wet slide of Tarn's valve against one of his hindlegs, precum dripping onto the bed and his wingtips scrape against the ceiling and walls as the Sixer shoves himself fully onto the berth. He peppers the mech's neck and jawline with licks, squirming his hips into the space between Tarn's overheated thighs until the tip of his spike caught the rim of a wet port.

The licks turns into teeth clamping down on the joint of Tarn's neck, holding him in place as Sixshot slams into him, hilt deep- and then keeps thrusting, hard, hammering thrusts into the tank-former's body.

[sparkwhisperer]

Tarns optic flare brightly as Sixshot slams his length into him. A sharp wail of pleasure escapes him as his fingers scramble and smudge over his chest. The stretch of the Phase Sixer's spike is exquisite; edging on pain. Without even a moment to adjust before setting into a brutal pace, Tarn finds himself in a formidable and mind-blowing undertow of pain and pleasure.

He loves every moment of it, squirming and clinging to the colossal canine frame above him. The clamp of teeth on his neck only adds to his blinding euphoria, edging dangerously close to his prized vocalizer.

Tarn's pawing quickly turns into vicious groping. The tips of his fingers, sliding into seams and yanking on sensitive wires; his hips trying to snap up to meet Sixshot's ferocious thrusts.

[phase6kindofbot]

The room was almost too cramped, but Sixshot couldn't summon enough care to try and shove more of his mass into subspace right now. He's too busy trying to shove it into Tarn instead, addicted to the heat and the electrical waves of pleasure rolling off of the other Decepticon's frame, the scent, the sounds.

Tarn's fingers in his seams draws a room rattling growl from the Sixer, one massive claw slamming into the berth next to the masked mech's helm, the other locking down on purple hips. The knot was already beginning to form and he has to push harder and harder to force it past the rim of Tarn's valve, each thrust sending their combined fluids splashing onto the berth.

A

[lifepersists]

Most with an untrained sense of smell wouldn't notice, but there was a very distinct smell that came from t-cog strain, usually due to rapid transforming or transformation without safety protocols in check. It was hard to smell over the scent of flowering spores, but First Aid wasn't exactly unfamiliar with it. He's had plenty experience with t-cog issues, including his own.

His intent was to gather fresh, sporing samples of the flora blooming; he was infected already, so he didn't have much to lose. The smell puts him into immediate medic mode though, even as his systems scream for relief from charge. He picks up his medical bag and drives off, sirens blazing, to the source. As distracted as he is, he doesn't immediately recognize the dark purple frame until he's transformed and back on his feet.

It's when those blazing red optics behind that mask set on him that recognition sets in.

"I should leave you to die out here in the dust."

Re: A

[sparkwhisperer]

Fuck. First Aid is exactly who he doesn't want to see right now.

He tries to regain some of his composure.

"Of course. I wouldn't expect anything else from you."

His treads rustle as he tries to rid them of the spore particles. A cloud of dust puffs up, before settling back into his armor.

The more time he wastes with First Aid the more heat gathers in his core. In a matter of seconds his cooling fans switch on, completely destroying any hope Tarn may have had in reclaiming his dignity.

He growls lowly, trying to push past the medic.

Re: A

[lifepersists]

Tarn is stupid. First Aid already knew that, but this settled it. He knew well enough about his addiction to transforming -- he wish he didn't know it so intimately -- but who went and found sporing flowers to have a fit in? Apparently, the leader of the DJD.

First Aid's own EM fiend is ragged with charge and sweltering heat. Tarn doesn't even need to touch him for their fields to brush and mingle, and suddenly his struts feel like jelly.

"Y-you won't be able to get it out. It's magnetic. You're already infected."

He presses his knees together and swallows, staring hatefully at the mech. This was his fault. He shouldn't have followed the noise and smell. Damn Tarn.

Re: A

[sparkwhisperer]

In Tarn's defense, he had no idea that there was even such a thing as sex spores on this planet at all. The transformation binge was just...ill placed.

He wishes he could just keep moving but it isn't just First Aid that feels the overwhelming charge as their fields brush. Instead Tarn stops, staggering a bit to his left. He turns to throw a hateful glare over his shoulder. That all consuming heat is definitely not something he is used to feeling when faced with the tiny Autobot medic.

"Infected with what, exactly?"

His engines growl as heat pours from his vents. He doubts he will get any sort of helpful answer from a mech who hates him so intensely; but he feels compelled to ask just in case.

[lifepersists]

It's a mutual feeling, buddy. Normally looking at Tarn didn't make him wet, but here he was, shivering from a feeling that wasn't intense, blind rage and the urge to purge down the mech's chest for once. Well, he was still angry, but it was muddled confusion and frustration, his concentration hazy from the charge.

First Aid clenches his hands by his sides to keep him from striking the mech, if just because he can't trust himself to touch him at the moment.

"You're dying. You feel it, right? You'll start melting from the inside out soon."

At least he can get his jollies from telling Tarn false medication information. Nobody ever said he wasn't petty.

[sparkwhisperer]

Tarn's optics flare brightly in shock. Dying? That can't be right.

Still the heat blazing inside of him is so intense that for a split moment he isn't sure. He pins First Aid with a suspicious squint.

Tarn inches slightly closer, bending down to look closely at the medic, searching for anything to betray the truth. As he does, another wave of charge snaps through him making his knees buckle. His spike begins to press urgently against his closed panel and a small trickle of lubricant seeps through the armor seams.

"You're lying." He manages to bite out, without moaning. "Truly, I would appreciate a bit of honesty right now. You can go back to hating me after."

A

[warmesthugs]

A large part of Helex's difficulties settling into life in this weird, stupid city is that he isn't allowed to maul anybody. Not even anybody who really deserves it, like Spinister. No, he has to behave himself. Orders from Tarn. Megatron might have blustered something similar, but Helex doesn't give one bent pin what that one has to say.

But Tarn's orders are Tarn's orders, and that leaves Helex – brimming with frustration and anger as he is – few outlets. Much of his time is spent largely unproductive, smashing down ruins on the outskirts of the city since empty buildings are the only things he can safely tear apart. He's elbows deep in one such session when he catches motion in the corner of his optic. Far enough away that he can't shout and be heard, Tarn drives out of the city, into the fields beyond where colour returned only recently in the way of strange flowers. Helex thinks they're ridiculous and hasn't bothered with them, and can't imagine what interest they hold for Tarn, so he shrugs and goes back to what he's doing. He's still irritated enough with his orders that he decides Tarn can do whatever Tarn likes.

But when his commander doesn't return in what Helex feels is a reasonable amount of time, he loses focus on what's left of the building around him. Of course he's been surreptitiously watching for Tarn to come back; he doesn't trust Megatron or anyone else here and it's his responsibility to look out for his commander. His commander who is still in that field somewhere. Helex curses and lumbers out after Tarn, telling himself nothing all that terrible could have happened.

Surely Tarn is just fine.

"Tarn!" he bellows, voice resonating through his smelting chamber into a deep, long-travelling boom. He's used it before when communications were scrambled, and it's useful enough as a way to warn Tarn he's incoming. There's a cloud of dust some ways off yet; could be the commander now, even. He angles that way and wades through too many stupid patches of stupid flowers to count. His height spares him most of the dust they kick up when crushed underfoot, at least until he catches up Tarn and has to wave the clouds away from his face.

"Commander? What're you doing out here?" he rumbles, squinting through the haze. It's weirdly warm this far into the field, but then Helex always runs warm. He ignores it for now.

[sparkwhisperer]

Tarn looks up as Helex approaches. Crouched in the destroyed field, his optics are a hazy burgundy. He heard his teammate's yell minutes ago and had tried to follow it to its source. Very quickly, he found himself consumed by a stifling heat, legs becoming weak and unreliable with his mounting charge. He attempts to stand, shaking the dust from himself in vain. In the end, he straightens the best he can despite the horrid pollen clogging his systems.

“Mind the flowers, they're…” Tarn manages to make it halfway through the sentence before his normally silky vocalizer dissolves into static. Tarn clears his throat before continuing. “They’re problematic.”

Oh course at that moment, while his trying so hard to seem in control of himself, his knees buckle sending him careening to the ground with a dull ‘clang' and a soft ‘oof’.

[warmesthugs]

Helex forgets to worry about the flower dust in spite of Tarn's warning when the commander drops; he rushes forward to support Tarn instead, scooping him up with both large hands. With his smaller hands, he lifts Tarn's chin to get a better look at his optics. It tingles a little, touching his overheated plating like this, but Helex can handle a little heat.

"Tarn," he says, frowning deeply, "you're burning up. Is it cause of these flowers?" He said they were problematic. Must have meant this.

That's when Helex realises his own internal temperature is climbing too high above normal, which shouldn't happen even when his smelter is active. Now he starts to worry.

[sparkwhisperer]

"Wait, don't--" But it's too late. As Helex scoops him up he pushes against the behemoth's chest, trying to put distance between them. Tarn looks past him at the wide swath of destroyed flowers from his trip over. Helex is probably already infected anyway. He relaxes slightly into the smelters arms. The infection courses through his systems, overheating him and activating his interface protocols. The first drops of lubricant begin to gather against his closed array.

"The spores from the flowers. They seem to have a strange effect." Tarn only feels slightly awkward having his conversation with his subordinate. "They force to body to gather charge and overheat." That infuriating staticky quality creeps slowly back into his voice and his cooling fans switch on as if on cue.

This is mortifying. Tarn tries to look anywhere but up at Helex's concerned face.

[warmesthugs]

Tarn can push all he wants; Helex will let him, but won't let him get away. He's not well, clearly, so it's better really that he starts to relax a little. Helex doesn't exactly relish the idea of having to manhandle the commander off to a medic or something.

But a different sort of handling starts to sound very appealing as Tarn explains, voice rough as it never ever is, even when he's furious. Helex decides he likes the way Tarn sounds right now and leers down at him, turning his face back up with both of his smaller hands.

"That so?" he rumbles. Gather charge and overheat. Tarn tries to make it sound so neat and clinical. Tarn likes his words neat. Call it what he likes, but it sounds to Helex like this flower nonsense gets people in the mood to rut. It's definitely working out that way for him, heat turning into electricity gathering on his circuits. He could just shunt it into the smelter and melt down some scrap and probably he'd be fine… but then… well, Tarn's right here. And no better off. "Got you all revved up, huh?" Helex goes on, leering at the dim, hazy glow of Tarn's optics.

It's at least partly the spores in his vent systems making him giddy, but it's the tension in Tarn's frame, too, the embarrassed tilt to his gaze. It makes him feel vulnerable in Helex's arms.

Helex rather likes the way he wears it.

"Bet I can take care of it for you," he says and pins Tarn against him with one huge hand cupped at the small of his back.

[sparkwhisperer]

Tarn groans as he's pinned against Helex's smelter. He knows that his teammate is strong but seeing him use it for this, rather than maiming List offenders, has his already distracting charge climbing at a rapid pace. His valve clenches on itself at the thought of Helex's size. Surely his thick spike would more than fit his needs.

Tarn's fingers squeal as they slide over the glass of his chamber. After a moment, he manages to make eye contact, optics flickering at the hunger he sees there.

"Please..."

He doesn't manage to say much else before his thighs begin to quiver and his panel snaps open. A thin trickle of lubricant drips from his swollen valve, smearing over Helex's plating.

B is for Boly shit what a backtag

[pharma]

Usually Pharma doesn't pay any attention to Tarn's coming and going, but this was a little different. Which is funny, because he's plenty distracted trying to ignore a slow, insistent burn settling into him. But his optics are glued to Tarn as he practically beelines for his habsuite.

Do not follow him. Do not -- Pharma gets up with a huff after a moment and follows him. It's just to ask if he's been feeling odd, nothing more. He pauses outside of the door to hear a few low, muffled moans.

This is a mistake, Pharma, a really big mistake -- "You had better not be dying in there, I can't be afted to deal with that right now."

Re: B is for Boly shit what a backtag

[sparkwhisperer]

Distantly he hears a familiar irritated tone; barely discernible over the overheated hum of his systems

Pharma?

His attention instantly snaps to the door, optics wide.

"Don't come in here. I mean that; you will regret it." His voice is uncharacteristically rough and buzzes with static. Pharma can't see him like this. Any respect that the doctor might have for him will vanish. Certainly it would do irreparable damage to their already paper thin rapport.

[pharma]

Well, there you go, Pharma, head off and mind your own business now.

He doesn't. He pauses, placing a hand against the door and taking note of the static in Tarn's voice. Maybe Tarn is afflicted with whatever this is, too. If so, maybe Pharma can take the opportunity to study it -- figure out what this is. Pharma successfully convinces himself that's solely why he's curious and doesn't wander off.

"I wouldn't be a very good designated physician if I didn't inquire."

[sparkwhisperer]

Sometime after Tarn had taken his attention from touching himself, his interface array had slid open, dripping a puddle of lubricant onto the berth between his thighs.

Even as he hears Pharma press the issue from the other side of the door, he cant help but slide two fingers into the needy, swollen lips of his valve, biting down another moan.

"Go away." He snaps, hoping to frighten the nosy medic away. Unfortunately there is just the slightest bit of panic in his voice that manages to seep into the command.

[pharma]

Something about Tarn's voice makes him take a quick in-vent, makes it harder to tell himself to walk away. His fingers curl slightly against the door;

"Tarn. Let me see."

It's not a physician's demand. It's a plea. Why the hell is he pleading to get inside? Because some part of him knows what he'll find in there? And then, maybe, what that might lead to.

He gets a small grip on himself, just enough to add, "I think I might know what's going on. You touched a strange plant, yes?"

[sparkwhisperer]

Tarn remains stubbornly silent as he plunges his digits roughly into the silky heat of his valve. His calipers clench desperately at his thick fingers with each punishing thrust, trying to hold them in with each ebbing slide.

"I know what's happening, you fool." He bites out, static heavy in his voice. He can barely string thoughts together and forming sentences takes time and energy.

"Which is exactly why you should not be here. I can handle--ah--this."

The slick sound of Tarn's fingers fills the room. He bites down on his tongue when a whine catches in his throat. It's not enough; he knows that. But, the alternative is simply unacceptable.