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.

Threaded | Flat

Sixshot didn't actually hear him. It's just Tarn left a trail of Tarn-Scented booty call all the way back to the base.

A long tongue joins Tarn's fingers in the probing, licking between the digits.

Most with an untrained sense of smell wouldn't notice, but there was a very distinct smell that came from t-cog strain, usually due to rapid transforming or transformation without safety protocols in check. It was hard to smell over the scent of flowering spores, but First Aid wasn't exactly unfamiliar with it. He's had plenty experience with t-cog issues, including his own.

His intent was to gather fresh, sporing samples of the flora blooming; he was infected already, so he didn't have much to lose. The smell puts him into immediate medic mode though, even as his systems scream for relief from charge. He picks up his medical bag and drives off, sirens blazing, to the source. As distracted as he is, he doesn't immediately recognize the dark purple frame until he's transformed and back on his feet.

It's when those blazing red optics behind that mask set on him that recognition sets in.

"I should leave you to die out here in the dust."

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.

Usually Pharma doesn't pay any attention to Tarn's coming and going, but this was a little different. Which is funny, because he's plenty distracted trying to ignore a slow, insistent burn settling into him. But his optics are glued to Tarn as he practically beelines for his habsuite.

Do not follow him. Do not -- Pharma gets up with a huff after a moment and follows him. It's just to ask if he's been feeling odd, nothing more. He pauses outside of the door to hear a few low, muffled moans.

This is a mistake, Pharma, a really big mistake -- "You had better not be dying in there, I can't be afted to deal with that right now."

Threaded | Flat

B

A

A

B is for Boly shit what a backtag