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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

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."

The benefit of visored optics is that it's harder to tell where exactly the mech is looking, though Tarn's close enough he may be able to see through the bright blue glow and note the apertures of First Aid's optics were fixated at the apex of his legs. Watching the trickle of lubricant down the leader of DJD's thighs, and finding it enticing, was probably one of the more humiliating things in his life.

"You're leaking," he says without thinking, then presses hands over his mask.

With Tarn that close his field was a mess of heat and desire and utter loathing, all tangled up in a nasty, piercing snarl. His pure hate for the DJD had always stopped him from finding anything attractive about them, but with his frame as needy as it was he was finding the usual things he found appealing.

"You've got it bad."

He had it bad. His whole array ached and he'd even been working on keeping his charge under control.

Tarn takes a quick glance down at the viscous lubricant dripping down his inner thigh.

"Ah...so I am."

The world around him has become a hazy mess. The only thing he is able to focus on is his building charge and the desire radiating from First Aid's field. He knows that he should leave. The tiny Autobot is the last person who should be seeing him like this, but somehow he's only moved closer. as he does so, the scent of arousal spends him spinning into what could only be a terrible decision.

Tarn's legs give out completely as he falls to his knees.

"Help me."

he manages to make the statement sound more like a command rather than the desperate plea that it actually is.

The sight of the leader of the DJD on his knees in front of him did things for First Aid's libido that he would ashamed of later. It was a dark, very violent flare of lust, his visor widening as he looked at the huge mech like he was some sort of game to be gutted and eaten.

"Look at you on your knees," he purrs, stepping forward to take that huge masked face between his palms and turn it towards him. One thumb rubs over the slit of the mask, tracing where his lips would be. "Filthy."

He's small enough he can bend a knee and rub it at Tarn's slicked covers, spreading the thick lubricant over the red metal of his thigh. It scrapes just slightly, enough for the noise to grate the audios, but the wetness eases the slide. First Aid would normally never get this close, the exception being that one overcharged night. Certainly not in this way, but Tarn's frustration was really doing it for him.

"You like being on your knees, don't you? Go on, open. Show me how filthy you are."

Before he even realizes what has happened, Tarn's panels slide apart without his consent. Heavy drops of lube spatter the ground beneath him as he attempts to gain his bearings. His fully pressurized spike stands eagerly between them.

Tarn can't bring himself to look down, mortified at his own body's betrayal. Loathe as he is to admit it, First Aid's words and hungry stare only exacerbate his charge. The excitement at his utter humiliation of being brought so low...It's unthinkably shameful, but he can't bring himself to care.

His eyes blaze brightly as he stares down at First Aid, head cocking ever so slightly and fists clenched loosely at his sides.

"Eager are we? Is it such a novelty to have someone so at your disposal?" His normally smooth, velvety voice is thick with static, but he refuses to roll over and submit so easily to an Autobot.

If Tarn thinks he'll shame First Aid over his sexuality, then he had a surprise coming to him. He was quite comfortable with his sex life and his desire; even if he hated the mech in front of him, Tarn still fit into the pattern of what he usually found sexually attractive. That aside? It's the power wielded over him that really intensely gets him off.

"I've dreamed about having you beg me," he purrs, one hand dipping down to wrap around the huge, slick spike jutting between them. "Different circumstances, but this will do for now."

First Aid's own armor felt stifling, his array aching with need. Lubricant drips out of his closed panels down his leg, sticky and thick, while more gathers at the mouth of his covered valve. His plating flares, expelling heat, and he lets his own paneling fold away. The relief is almost instant as his cord extends, thick and heavy for his size, but still dwarfed by the huge frame in front of him.

"You've got my leg all dirty," he hums, glancing down at the lubricant streaking his thigh as he wraps his other hand around the spike. He drags both hands down it, fingers firmly pressing into the plates, following the groove of the transfluid piping. "Are you always this shameless in the berth or just with Autobots?"

Dark hips buck as First Aid begins to stroke him. a low groan weaves out from behind his mask as he leans back, bracing himself on shaking arms. Tarn presses his hips further into the medic's grasp.

His cooling fans roar as he listens to First Aid's taunts. He wants to argue and disagree but his brain can barely grasp the concept of words at all with how the Autobot is working over his spike.

An all consuming blaze of lust takes him as his head lolls uselessly to the side. His optics are clouded and his mouth is open and panting under his mask. He feels like he's suffocating beneath it, unable to cool his overheating frame fast enough; even as his plating flares to release a long stream of hot air.

"Please..." His voice dips between a low purr and a gasp, reverberating deep inside First Aid's spark. "You can't tease me like this."

How disgraceful. What would Megatron think if he saw Tarn now. The thought seems distant and unreal; trapped in a wicked fog.

The first time First Aid had felt the reverberation of Tarn's spark he had been terrified. Caught in a drunken haze of rage and terrified, but still terrified none the less. This time, the pulses in his spark almost feel good. It might be the aphrodisiac of the pollen coursing through his system and the already pent up charge, but if it hurt, his sensors couldn't really tell right now. His frame trembles and he cries out softly, half falling between Tarn's thighs as they fall open for him, but he catches himself against the mech's hip and presses harder against the slick, needy opening to his port.

"I can." Having the huge tank mech at his mercy felt wonderful, even if watching and touching him made his own frame almost vibrate with built up charge. He felt like he was melting inside.

First Aid reaches up with one hand, grasps the sides of his mask, then pulls it away. He's been doing that a lot lately but-- he always wants to taste. He pulls Tarn's spike to his chest, the head pressed to the brightly glowing Autobot badge in mockery, and revs his engine. The feeling of the cord against his chest felt better than First Aid wanted to admit; he loves it when big mechs overload on him, so the hard cock sliding against his playing makes his valve gush a fresh wash of lubricant in need.

"What do you want? I can't decipher it from your squealing." He tips his head down, dragging his lips over the fat, wet head.

The only noise Tarn makes is a short grunt as soft lips trace over the head of his spike. He doesn’t want to say what he wants. To reveal such vile carnal desires will surely destroy him. He can’t be done anyway; not with this Autobot. The stretch that his body craves simply can’t be met by First Aid’s small stature. He’s not big enough to give Tarn the raw thorough fragging that he craves.

At least so he thinks.

His hips snap forward, thick spike sliding against First Aid’s face.

“Give me everything that you’ve got, then. Hopefully you won’t disappoint.”

More lubricant gushes from his clenching, infuriatingly empty valve.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

The sight and feeling of the hot, slick valve clenching around his fingers has First Aid's venting in a quick, swallow rhythm. The lubricant spills over his hand, dripping from his wrist in thick globs, and for a moment he indulges in the fantasy of it being his spike instead buried in and stretching the walls of the mech's cunt. It gives a jump against Tarn's leg, the tip dripping a glob of fluid that he smears with a thrust.

"You want it, don't you? Are you close?"

He presses his thumb firmly against the stiff node, slowing to a grind, then switches the rubbing to his other hand to free his thumb. First Aid twists his wrist, circling the stretched rim with his one remaining free finger, then curls it, wiggling in and inside. His whole hand presses up into Tarn, curled together to ease the slide, but as his fingers brush the end of the mech's channel he spreads them open, straining against the calipers.

"Five fingers," he purrs, a huge grin spread across his lips. He rubs harder at Tarn's node, then thrusts his fingers up against the ceiling of the valve. "That's how many I have in you."

Tarn's optics flare wildly as heat courses through his system. Finally, the fullness that he’s been craving.

He grinds down helplessly, valve swallowing more of First Aid's wrist, clenching helplessly against his fingers.

As the medic spreads his digits, Tarn bucks feebly, vocalizer screeching static. It's an entirely different feeling from having a thick spike spreading him open. Each finger teases at different sensors, stroking independently and fluidly. His fingers dig deep furrows into the dirt as he tries to ground himself, thrashing with pleasure.

It no longer matters to Tarn who his wrist deep in him. He just needs it to continue.

“Move.…” His voice straining, static popping wildly. “ Please-”

The stretch of Tarn's valve around his hand was amazing. First Aid enjoyed the sight of it more than he wanted to admit. He takes a moment to enjoy the view, leaving Tarn on the edge almost to the point of torture, and then he drags his fingers out almost completely and balling it into a fist.

"All right, since you asked nicely."

First Aid thrusts his hand back in, all the way up to the apex of Tarn's valve, then uncurls his fingers to rub his knuckles against his ceiling node. He begins a rhythm, repeating the pattern, twisting his wrist on every other thrust in to rub other nodes and open the calipers.

He keeps his visor fixed on Tarn's face. Even though the mask covered any expression, the movement of his head and the flicker of his optics were arousing enough. Part of him feels humiliation at that; the desires he was having about taking his pleasure from him was shameful. It helps him reign himself in, focusing on Tarn rather than his own throbbing need.

He keeps his other hand rubbing at Tarn's exterior node, speeding up the circling of his thumb to build up static. With both hands occupied, he leans down again to stretch his lips around the head of the tank mech's spike, pressing it just past his teeth and swallowing.

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

have some hot steaming garbage

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