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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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’.

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.

Helex grins and wastes no time pushing Tarn to the ground now that Tarn's been so good as to say please. Helex lacks grace, he knows that; he's not seductive. But he has four arms, and with one large hand he tries to pin both of Tarn's to the ground above his head. He braces his own weight with his other heavy arm, and with his two smaller hands he feels his way across Tarn's hips, between his thighs.

"Please what?" he rumbles, feeling heat and electricity swell behind his own panel at the slickness on his fingers.

Tarn pulls and bucks against Helex's strong hands. The slightest brush of fingers against his anterior node has him biting out a needy grunt. He can't stop himself from grinding down on his warm digits, legs splaying wider.

"Frag me..." He growls the command, optics flaring with intent. He lets just the barest hint of his vocal talents seep in to brush against Helex's spark in a teasing caress.

That low rumble rolling up through Tarn's frame and the faint, light pull it has on his spark lends a new urgency to Helex's movements. He presses Tarn's thighs down and takes a split second to appreciate the sight of his commander's bare, gleaming valve and Tarn himself spread open and wanting.

Maybe he likes it too much, but Helex can worry about that some other time.

He slides his interface cowling back with a low groan of his own, tightness easing as his spike swings free to grind across Tarn's port, Helex rolling his hips a few times, unable to help himself. And then he shudders and drives himself down and in, needing to feel Tarn wrapped around him to the baseplate now.

Tarn’s optics white out and his mouth opens into an unholy groan of pleasure. Helex is big; bigger even than First Aid’s forearm. Luckily, his previous dalliance has left him stretched enough to take the majority of the length without much trouble.

Tarn arches his burning frame into the all encompassing sensation, wanting it deeper. He manages to slide his hips up into Helex’s thrust, valve opening to take him to his baseplate, it's tip nudging the terminus of his port.

His helm tosses to the side, the edges of his mask scraping deep grooves into the dirt. Heaving ventilations stir dust into the air as Tarn struggles to hold still, enjoying the feeling of being so blessedly full and allowing himself some time to adjust.

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have some hot steaming garbage

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