robothell | have some hot steaming garbage

have some hot steaming garbage

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.

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Tarn make’s a noise of acknowledgement. As the fog of pleasure slowly dissipates he’s left with a distinct soreness, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. He’s had worse pain.

“I’ll be fine. Let’s just…relax for a moment.”

He reaches up to stroke the back of the wolf’s neck. He’s drained of energy, content to spend the foreseeable future under the warmth of his partner. The roaring of engines has begun to die down to a purr and the zaps of charge have become less frequent.

He’s never interfaced quite like that before. He knew that he liked it rough. Perhaps rougher than most. But, the raw power behind Sixshot’s beast mode was unmatched and exciting and exotic. Even if he hadn’t been pleasure drunk from flower spores he can imagine it would have ended very much the same way.

"Tarn," Sixshot starts, but the gentle touches over his neck ease some of the wolf mech's worries and he lets the words trail off. Slowly, he eases down to lie on top of Tarn, folding his legs to keep most of his weight off of his partner.

The movements shifts the knot against the overstretched walls of Tarn's valve despite his best efforts and he shudders quietly. The body beneath him was warm and the loose press of purple thighs against his flanks draws a low rumble from the Sixer as he leans down to gently lick at the bloodied marks his teeth had left on Tarn's shoulder.

Tarn gasps as Sixshot’s spike shifts along over-sensitized nodes. Even the tiny movement reminds him of how widely stretched he is, punctuated by a sharp ache that he readily ignores.

He melts into the warm slide of his tongue against his plating, lapping at the sluggishly bleeding punctures. The gentle moment is a rarity and Tarn takes a moment to enjoy it, temporarily escaping the stressors of life and just focusing on the feeling of his lover’s plating snugly against his. He hums lowly in contentment, affectionately brushing the edge of his mask against the side of Sixshot’s helm.

"Thank you for helping."

"Everything?"

First Aid can tell Tarn expects to be disappointed; it's in his phrasing, feverish but judging appraisal. The medic's rising irritation was doing things for his libido; the more he wanted to strangle the mech, the more he wanted to fuck his face into the dirt. His plating exoskeletal plating flares, rippling along his protoform, and his spike gives a little twitch that squeezes a thick bead of transfluid from the tip.

Tarn's spike was thick and heavy and it would fill and stretch him so wonderfully. Just the feel of the slick, swollen organ rubbing against his cheek got the charge coiling in his gut. If he concentrated, he could almost imagine it disembodied from that loathsome mech.

First Aid's attention wanders to the pump mesh of Tarn's valve, swollen with energon and charge and gaping slightly. He drags his hands down to the soft mesh and circles the opening with both hands, smearing the dripping lubricant around the array.

"What a greedy slit, so hungry to be fucked by anyone."

He could fuck Tarn. He was large enough for his size class to find satisfaction from his hole while denying Tarn the amount of stimulation he needed to get off. He could come in him and leave him with only his fluids dripping from him, thick and humiliating. First Aid's cord gives another jump at the thought.

He hooks two fingers into opposite sides of Tarn's opening, spreading him open obscenely so he can dip his head and look up inside him.

The warm press of Tarn's mask slows Sixshot's licks as he turns his head to gently return the gesture with a nuzzle. He wished he could accept the thanks, but the fact of the matter was that he'd been mindlessly driven by the heat.

He's honestly not sure he'd have come at all if he'd been in his right mind. Not with prom night and the aftermath thereof still fresh in his memories. Not with his confession to being a traitor.

"You should go see Spinister after this," he murmurs, muzzle against his lover's audial. "Assuming he's not afflicted too."

Tarn winces. Spinister must be awfully sick of looking at his crotch. He will avoid it if at all possible; he can’t imagine that its nothing a bit of time won’t fix. Going to see him was bad enough for outer plating damage. But this is far more…invasive, and awkward for both of them.

"I'll be alright. I'm sure Spinister has more pressing matters to attend to.” He tries to wave of Sixshot’s concern, moving his fingers up to rub gentle circles behind his ear nubs.

He has missed this; the sense of camaraderie between the. Since Prom Tarn has barely seen Sixshot at all, and exchanged words with him even less. He turns to his head to look up at the six changer.

“How have you been?” It’s typically a question asked before sex, but in this situation he supposes there can be an exception. It’s only slightly awkward that the only reason Tarn has the opportunity to ask is because they are literally tied together by their genitals and not able to move.

Tarn chokes on a moan as First Aid spreads his valve open. Something so simple has no right feeling so good. He cants his hips, trying to get his fingers deeper; mindlessly chasing any kind of stimulation. Tarn's thighs spread obscenely wide to allow the Autobot better access and another thick drop of lubricant drips to the ground beneath him.

His optic’s brighten slightly in bewilderment as the medic dips down look look inside him, parting his charge swollen lips.

“Ah- and what are you looking to accomplish? Such a tiny thing…”

Surely he doesn’t think his fingers will be enough to pleasure Tarn. Still, his valve desperately hopes that he’s wrong. It thirsts to be stuffed full, stretched to its limits and fucked into submission. Tarn groans at the thought. His treacherous body’s craving to submit to this Autobot drives him mad. Anyone else but this he could maybe brave, but First Aid…he’s problematic. Surely he hates Tarn enough to gossip about how he shoved his face into the dirt and fucked the Decepticon senseless. Tarn’s fists clench uselessly at the thought, spike twitching in begrudging excitement.

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.

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’.

"I've... been."

Was Tarn expecting more out of that answer? Because Sixshot isn't really giving him anymore. It about sums up the current state of things anyways: he's been, like he's always been before, just existing and little else. Lonely, nihilistic navel gazing was a hobby the Sixer rather excelled at and found hard to give up, especially now that his tentative stray into socializing had blown up in his face.

"How about you?" he asks in an awkward attempt to steer the conversation away from the matter. Like it wasn't awkward enough to have this kind of talk while he's... physically connected with someone.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

Tarn picks up on Sixshot's unease, deciding that it's best to let the topic drop. He sighs, taking the bait.

"Trying to do damage control." His fingers busy themselves as he picks a bit nervously (though Tarn would never admit it) at a patch of dried mud behind one of the wolf's ear. "Helex is here."

He tries not to think about what would happen if Helex found out that he had pardoned Sixshot's defection. A fight between the two would surely be disastrous to say the least. Tarn shifts uneasily on his partner's spike, swallowing a groan as his valve walls ripple against it weakly.

Tarn had a nice valve, though First Aid wouldn't say that out loud. The walls, clenching helplessly and desperate to be filled, were very arousing. He strokes his fingers around the rim, up towards the anterior node, and pinches it between two fingers and rubs his thumb firmly over it.

"Tiny? It's your valve that's too big. Such a loose hole."

He traces the rim again with his other hand, gathering the lubricant with the tips, and then sinks two fingers in. They don't reach deep, just enough that just the head of a spike Tarn's size would fit, and he presses against the mesh, rubbing into one of the nodes. First Aid's venting hitches, the lubricant leaking over his palm making his charge swell.

"You're not the biggest I've had, you know, and even those mechs were tighter than this."

First Aid pushes another finger in and curls them, thrusting his fingers against the rim of the valve hard, making the lubricant squelch between his fingers. A forth finger is added right after and he spread them, stretching against the lining as his other hand rubs firm circles around the node. Had it been anyone besides Tarn, he would have probably overloaded by now, but he was drunk instead on the sounds the Decepticon made as his hips buck into his hand.

He fixes his visor on the mech's mask as the armor on his arm clicks and transforms, shifting to seal tight around his protoform, smoothing into a rounded shape compared to the blocky form that moved seamlessly into his altmode. Many medics had this set of transformation sequences to allow their hands to squeeze into spaces that their altmode kibble wouldn't normally allow. In this case, Tarn's valve.

"Do I want to know?" Sixshot doesn't even sound surprised. Mostly, he just sounds tired, disappointed and conflicted, although the gentle fingers behind his ear nub mollifies him somewhat.

He's awful curious about what will happen now too. Morbidly so. Will Tarn tell him about Sixshot's betrayal? Will Helex put Tarn back on the path of righteousness? Will Helex be displeased about his boss having sex with a traitor?

... The Sixer really hopes that last topic doesn't come up. He is very done with his sex life being known by literally everyone.

Loose? Tarn tries to be offended but with First Aid rubbing his pulsing node so wonderfully, he finds it hard to gather enough strength.

Instead, as the medic begins thrusting rough fingers into his heat, Tarn can only whine. He cants his dark hips into the punishing treatment, seeking more.

The massage of those talented fingers against shallow set nodes has him squirming. He eases himself back onto his elbows, legs falling further open to allow the Autobot better access. The slow spread of his calipers isn’t enough; he needs more. The tease is slow and almost excruciating as he feels like his systems are going to overheat and fry. As First Aid slides a fourth finger into him he sobs with relief, finally beginning to feel something of a stretch.

Hearing the beginning of a transformation, Tarn stares down his frame, optics dull and hazy with need. The sight of his lubricant smeared array has him panting; his stretched valve just barely visible behind his twitching spike.

He lets his head fall back with a dull thud, vision swimming as he stares up at the sky, praying for relief. He just wants to pretend that it’s someone else. Anyone other than First Aid shoving their talented fingers into his dripping, swollen lips.

His tone is not lost on Tarn, he knows exactly what Sixshot is thinking.

“Don't worry I've deliberately kept you out of our conversations. No, lets just say that my dear colleague hasn’t made the best first impression with Megatron. “

He can’t help but play scenarios over in his mind of disasters that could occur, each more horrible than the next. If Tarn is to be honest with himself, he’s not sure that he could protect his lover if Helex was determined to offline him. Really, its best if they never meet. He stares up at Sixshot, making a point to catch his eyes.

"Stay away from him, do you understand me? If he finds out about your treason, he could prove to be an extremely dangerous adversary. I would rather not have to stand between the two of you. Besides, I... care about you. I don’t want to see you hurt by this."

There is silence for a long moment. Then Sixshot's optics brighten sharply, his claws digging into the berth.

"Tarn." Sixshot's voice suddenly drops into something quiet and very, very deadly. "I told you that with the expectation of dying. The only way you would have killed me is if I'd lain there and let you do it and I was willing, then. I'm not worried in the least that you would mention it to Helex."

Teeth flash silently a few inches away from Tarn's helm and the Sixer's voice takes on dark, silken quality. "What did Helex do to Megatron?"

Possibly, just maybe, Tarn should be a little more worried about his minion here.

Edited 2015-09-03 06:36 (UTC)

Tarn’s optic’s widen in something similar to panic. Knotted to a furious Phase Sixer is exactly where he does not want to be. And yet, he can barely lean away from Sixshot’s gleaming teeth as they flash next to his helm, seemingly ready to strike.

It’s Tarn’s turn to be insulted now as his partner brushes off his heartfelt confession of affection. His gaze turns steely and cold in a snap and his voice chills to match.

“They fought. Megatron is fine, no need to be so concerned.”

It’s as if the six changer doesn’t trust his ability to keep things under control; as if Tarn doesn’t care about Megatron’s safety.

The tension melts from his frame as quick as it'd come. It idly occurs to Sixshot that he's possibly too quick to trust Tarn again- but then Tarn hadn't turned it on him yet, has he?

And if nothing else, Sixshot's immense power had always afforded him the ability to trust, for better or for worse.

"Tarn," his is voice is soft now, his snout pressed against the side of his friend's helm in quiet apology, tongue slipping gently between the cables of the DJD commander's neck. "Whatever happens between us, promise me that no harm will come to him."

The gentle nuzzle does little to sooth Tarn's wounded pride; though it does ease some of the tension in his frame. He turns his head away, uneasy with the topic of conversation. He hopes that his insecurity doesn't leak into his field.

Trying to smooth things back out he glances at Sixshot, red optics dim. There is not room for petulance on his part in this situation. This isn't about him, or his hurt feelings; it's about Megatron.

"I promise."

The words come softly, rumbling in his chassis.

This time, Sixshot's tongue follows the curve of Tarn's jawline. He didn't mean to question Tarn's control over his teammate and he didn't mean to disregard Tarn's expression of care- but Sixshot's forte had never been verbal apologies, and so he tries to make it up this way instead.

The temperature hike that accompanies it comes as a surprise however. He's suddenly hyper-aware of Tarn's warm frame, the taste of him, the smell of him- and the pressure of the mech's valve still locked around his cock.

"I- can transform if you'd like?" The change in mass should be enough to free Tarn. The knot wasn't fading away in its usual amount of time and he suspects the effects of the pollen were beginning to make a come back.

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."

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have some hot steaming garbage

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A

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gayy

that was the wrong thing to say

Re: that was the wrong thing to say

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B is for Boly shit what a backtag