robothell | the shit train just keeps rolling

Tarn watches as Galvatron licks his energon from his fingers. Strangely, it helps to calm him, reminding him of something his teammates would do. Nickel would have scolded them; something about consuming non-processed energon, catching diseases, etcetera. A smile twitches his lips; what he wouldn’t do to be with them all again.

At least he has Helex to confide in…

He’s distracted as Galvatron pulls the badge from his own chest and doesn’t realize what is happening until the warlord is reaching for him. He stares down at the glowing symbol in shock.

Surely he isn’t serious.

The firm pressure against his chest makes it real and he looks down at a complete looking chassis for the first time in months. The deep gouge that Ratchet left is still visible behind the insignia, serving as a vicious reminder of what was. His fingers quiver as they come up to brush over the smooth metal. It isn’t his badge, that is truly irreplaceable; made from his own spark chamber. But, the gesture soothes Tarn. He doesn’t feel quite so incomplete

‘Thank you’, he scrawls in the dirt. He has to stop himself from getting emotional. Surely Galvatron would not appreciate it.

Giving away the badge was of no consequence to Galvatron. He only donned it upon taking the mantle of leadership of the Decepticons. Soundwave had insisted; if he was to lead them, then he would take their symbol to show his acceptance. He had little attachment to the badge.

"Writing in the dirt doesn't dignify you. You can thank me in other ways."

Galvatron cups Tarn's chin, tilting his head up, then rubs his thumb over the thin slit at the mouth of his mask. What he wanted was the mech's loyalty, but his body would be a pleasing bonus. Without Cyclonus at his side he has been lacking in dedicated partners.

"Do you know other methods of communication?"

Tarn’s first instinct is to pull away from the hand cupping his chin, but he manages to still himself, freezing under Galvatron’s fingers before slowly relaxing into them. His optics dim in submission, turning his face into the thumb sliding over the mouth of his mask.

His hands leave the dirt to search out Galvatron’s, fingers twining with his. Chronolinguistics are something that Tarn rarely uses. As far as ways of communication go, it feels far too intimate for his tastes. But, with his voice gone for however long, he supposes beggars can’t be choosers. And, while writing in the dirt may be preferable to Tarn, he supposes Galvatron does have a point.

His fingers shift tentatively against the warlords in the quiet, under practiced, language, stuttering on words with shaking fingers.

‘How can I thank you?'

Chronolinguistics is unfortunately not a language that Galvatron understands. His smile falters as the mech takes his hand, and while he somewhat gets that Tarn is trying to communicate by this awkward tapping and rubbing of fingers, it's lost on Galvatron.

"What are you doing?" he laughs after a moment.

With a scoffing sound, he reaches for his head with a spare hand, snapping open a cranial panel, and then begins unspooling a cable.

"Connect with me. Share your thoughts."

Tarn hesitates. If he thought that chronolinguistics was too intimate, letting Galvatron hardline into him, giving him access to his emotions and memories and thoughts, brought it to a whole new level. There was no editing this way. no way to pick and choose what to say, or how to word it. He’s vulnerable.

But, he can’t say no, either. Tarn's fingers shake slightly as he reaches to pop his own panel, connecting Galvatron’s cable to his port.

The presence of another consciousness against his own is jarring; uncomfortable like an itch in his processor that he can’t scratch. He tries to ignore it to get back to to topic at hand.

I was asking how you would like me to thank you.

Galvatron's mind is clear from deceptions, which is exactly why he doesn't feel this. The brush of consciousness against his own was only unpleasant when it was unconsensual; this was something he was far more used to, and while he was far from skilled in mind domination, his presence was still something hard and strong.

Just from this initial connection, Tarn could probably discern a number of things about Galvatron. For one, he didn't trust him at all. Digging deeper would find that he simply didn't trust anyone as allegiances were fragile if interests and power waned, and he's lived far too long to expect an ally to be forever. Other more prominent thoughts are his thirst for conquest, that Cybertronians were superior to others and that their race needed to embrace it.

Essentially, no surprises.

The warlord rumbles with a chuckle, his hands finding Tarn's neck, skirting over the wound. He does not shy away from the sight of bloodshed.

What do you have to give me? Your loyalty? Your body? That is what I desire.

Anxiety twists wildly in Tarn’s tanks even as he desperately tries to quash it. Galvatron will think him weak. But, the closeness of their minds is uncomfortable, and foreign, and too much all at once. The strong presence is unyeilding against his own. He is forced to wear his insecurity as a shameful badge.

Tarn tries his best to cover it with submission.

You’ll have it. All of it.

The subtle tones of mistrust is met with Tarn's unyielding loyalty. He will give his life for the cause; for Galvatron. He clicks in pleasure as his new Master's fingers glide over his throat. The sting of pain is soothed by the warmth of physical contact. Tarn presses forward to maximize that feeling. He wants to submit. He wants to be claimed. But, most of all, after this entire fiasco, he wants to be wanted.

the shit train just keeps rolling

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