The push of knuckles against his ceiling node has Tarn seeing stars and his valve drips a steady stream of lubricant, gathering around the stretched rim to ease the slide of First Aid’s forearm. He moans outright, helm tossing in the dirt.

Tarn turns his head away from the obscene squelch of his interface array each time that fist buries itself inside of him. He can’t bare to look down at First Aid, even as he wraps his lips around Tarn's thick cock, to ashamed to acknowledge who has taken him so firmly in hand. Finally, he’s getting the stimulation that his body craves, feeling every push against his straining calipers. Slowly, Tarn begins canting his hips up into the thrust of First Aid’s fist, wanting it harder, faster.

He wants it to hurt.