Tarn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sparkwhisperer) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
robothell2015-08-10 03:19 pm
sparkwhisperer) wrote in robothell2015-08-10 03:19 pm
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.
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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.