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

[lifepersists]

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.

[sparkwhisperer]

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.

[lifepersists]

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."

[sparkwhisperer]

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-”

[lifepersists]

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.

[sparkwhisperer]

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.