#the ever growing saga of tarn and his suffering that's self induced

[witchofthesouls]

How would the DJD react to a lone carrier? Maybe the carrier is stuck on a another planet trying to negotiate with the local market for tickets or shanix to get home? Would they go feral or would they just only somewhat interested? What if the reason the carrier is stuck is because they got abandoned by their partner who is on The List and didn’t want to cross paths with the DJD so left them behind to save their own ass, that could be juicy…

(Tarn's dignity will always suffer with me, so he majorly fucks up because of regulations he inputted himself in the initial days of his gun-ho zeal to the Cause and Megatron's worldview.)

Camiens have a reputation for falling in love too fast and too hard, and like any blitzed and infatuated mechling swooning over their first love, you fell for the rugged outworlder. It was like a tale from a stupid romance holo, but instead of a deepening connection from constant hardship, you were left destitute on a planet that didn't need your expertise and a forge full of newsparks.

The mech was happy enough to frag you silly and more than content to have a ward manager to weld his wounds, but you warned the mech of your spark-lineage and its coding quirks and the mech still had the audacity to not only freak out at impending sirehood but to actually do a runner as well.

Apparently, death caught him before you could because the mech took all the damn credits and shanix with him.

Luckily the group that got Deadzone had a functioning ship to drop you off near Camnius at the low price of your ex-lover's T-cog.

And you delivered that T-cog, still warm and wet from his fritzing corpse into the leader's hand. Beautifully intact despite his smelted frame.

Nicket, their CMO, dragged you to her medbay before any of the mechs could do anything, and practically shoved the empty job posting into your nasal ridge while checking your progress.

"Let me get this straight," You rub your temples, trying to force the stress away when Nickel tells you the reason why she nor any of the other mechs can't help with your carriage. "Instead of being able to proposition any of the mecha here, I have to sleep with the one that finished off Deadzone?"

"Unfortunately true." The medic grouses as she wipes her servos with a rag and you close your panel. "Some idiot thought that the winners caring for the losers' mates in gladiatorial matches was romantic."

There's a story behind that and you're not sure if you want to find out. Instead, you focus on the important part. "And that idiot?"

"Tarn." Nickel says, flatly.

"And who got Deadzone?"

"Also Tarn."

You're stuck with the mech that has no idea what to do with you, so he defers to stiff, awkward politeness. Nickels notes your expression and offers full use of the medical supply closet to have a private meltdown inside of it.

Sometimes, being a ward manager does have its perks.

_______

Because Nickel memorized the schedules, you approach Tarn on his downtime and knock on his habsuite door to rip the patch off.

"Hello, Tarn, I'm here for donor services." You pray that Nickel had beaten into his head that carriers needed resources. Otherwise, his refusal will launch a rut-induced riot by your own activated heat-protocols.

The mech nods and steps into his habsuite and you follow the nonverbal permission.

"Would you like something to drink?" He asks, gesturing to a cabinet and a spare convertor.

"No, thank you." You're being awkwardly polite because Tarn is as well. Your sensory panels twitch, partly anxious, but mostly to check if there are hidden cameras in the room. You click your glossa, door wings twitch again, and it reads as clear.

You have no idea what kind of weird scrap he's into, but you didn't expect the tank to simply... lie down on his berth.

"Do what's necessary then." And he just lies there, staring into the ceiling as if it held the secrets to the galaxy.

Solus save your spark.

You take a deep inhale and exhale through your vents.

"Okay," you step forward and eye his pelvis. "I'm going to need you to open this-" you tap twice over the panel that covers the spike housing "-and pressurize. I need to know what I'm working with."

He follows your instructions to the glyph. And it's a very generous proportion to the mech, there are treads lining its sides, deep grooves underneath the shaft, and solidly purple with a fat node sitting beneath the crown.

It was also dry.

You reach for the extra lubricant bottle in your subspace and smear a hefty dollop across your palm and digits because you want to minimize friction burn since he's definitely the largest spike in your experience.

You grip it firmly, sliding up and down the underside as you thumb the tip, it weeps and it's a healthy bright pink hue with no detection of infection. You don't feel anything off with the texture that would have denoted hidden spines or a knot or an expansion mod. The plating does overlap to create subtle ribbing...

Your face may be impassive, but your valve eagerly wets itself in anticipation, it gnaws and you can feel the innermost calipers trying to set to their widest setting, and you blame the active carriage because you never had been so turned on by a silent handy on a mech that reads 'clean' to your diagnostic tools before.

You tell him that it's best that you ride him, and it's true. You don't voice that you're 99% percent sure he has no prior experience, but you did voice that Nickel would be displeased trying to repair valvular lining and mesh on a carrier with only one valve.

You straddle him, nudging him to your rim until it catches, so you hold him firm to sink down in slow increments. He's big. Your thighs strain with the painfully slow pace of sinking down, hitching up, and sinking down further to carefully pop the next rib into you that spreads you wider and wider until you feel like bursting from the fullness.

Tarn is not as unaffected as he projects, despite that air of neutrality you can feel the underlying hunger nipping at your field, see his digits claw into the berth, and feel that massive spike twitching hotly as you brush over sensors you didn't even know existed inside your frame. You keep your own spike shut with medical lockdowns because you have no idea if Tarn would tolerate that mess on him.

You finally meet his housing and it takes a good moment to acclimate, frame slick and already steaming from that effort. You set to slow grind, bracing on his chassis, biting your lower lip as that node slides over a cluster of nodes that sets your valve to spasm and ripple.

There's a familiar wetness at the back of your valve that makes your spinal struts shiver and sensory panels rapidly flick to disperse the sudden swell of charge.

"Did you just-" You strangle out the words because merciful Pits the mech is big, and heat bursts directly into your chamber putting you on edge.

Tarn, who hadn't uttered a single noise ever since you mounted him and still hasn't looked at you since lying down, then said, very quietly, "I'm sorry."

You're far away from home, fucking a beyond awkward stranger because of archaic bull-scrap of a rule since the mech that was nearly your Conjunx wasn't the person you thought he was.

Tears start to well in your optics and you blink rapidly to keep it away since Tarn actually makes contact with your face and gets a dipole-deer-in-the-headlights expression, even with the mask.

That stupid fucker was dead and you're still here seething over it.

Tarn had said, Do what's necessary. Well, this is damn well necessary.

You lift yourself off his spike and immediately turn around to face the door. Without a word, you seat yourself again by not-so-gently guiding him back into you. And it's easier this time, granted you ignore the jarring sensation between too much and please more.

You can deal with an awkward-as-the-Pits frag, but you will not tolerate that pity.

Because you're ridiculously wet and primed since carrier-coding is in an absolute tizzy over this spike, you viciously ride said spike at a brutal pace, clanging hard enough to leave bruises upon protoform, and ignoring the stretch in your valve, your vents practically wheeze with every drop that shoves Tarn to the back of your throat and leaves your insides quivering, unsure if it's from pleasure or overwhelmed by the sensation of taking a mech that's beyond your schematics.

Luckily it had an adjustment period, Tarn isn't thrusting upward, and nothing in your system is currently red-lining.

The tank doesn't say anything else, he doesn't even touch you. Instead, you hear something breaking in the room, but it isn't your frame and you can't bring yourself to care.

You keep the pace for the rest of the ordeal, annihilating your thoughts until it channels all of the urges to raise the dead back to life (just so you could personally gut Deadzone over and over) into getting the newsparks the transfluid they need. You can taste Energon in your mouth, bleeding down your intake, cooling fans roaring, and beneath the mad clanking, there's the audible noise of lubricant splattering out.

It's hard to say what burns harder, your frame and fuel lines or the hate boiling in your spark.

You keep it up even when your chamber bloats, heavy and hot, forcing your howling thighs and back through the onslaught, ozone thick with the Energon on your glossa as you speed and lose count of the overloads, and it isn't until Tarn's spike fully softens within your calipers' death grip do you finally stop.

And because you refuse to crash here in the mech's room, you don't pause to rest, you simply swing off of Tarn.

"Thank you and good night," you shout at the guy. Raging and hurt you may be, but you still have manners and Tarn did his duty to the damn regulations.

You hobble-stomp back to the med-bay, a wildfire as your spark, even as your pelvis throbs and joints scream to rest. Nickel takes one look at your face and immediately points to the supply closet. "I sent you the code."

You jam in the sequence and the moment the door shuts, you scream.

____________

:: Tarn, what did you do!? ::

:: Nothing. ::

:: I can tell. ::