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Ever since he shed his old identity of Damus and became Tarn of Megatron, everything he did was in service of his master. Lord Megatron was like Primus to him and if it meant making him happy, Tarn would do anything, even shove all his emotions deep down and become a cold, unfeeling killing machine for the sake of unadulterated justice, all in the name of the Decepticon Cause™.
In theory, any other role would have been better than this.
On his first mission as a full-fledged Decepticon warrior, he'd truly outdone himself, that was what his Lord had said before promising him any reward of his choosing. So Tarn asked for one night to spare, just one night spent together. And his master said yes, so Tarn cleaned off the dirt and grime and not-blood from the battle, scrubbing and perfuming himself with rich soaps and creams, wanting to be presentable for his love. Then he'd sat on his berth, waiting for the summons from Lord Megatron...then he'd been pleasantly surprised to know that Lord Megatron would visit his quarters tonight—so surprised, in fact, all he could do was ask "why?".
"Do you not wish to be rewarded properly?" Lord Megatron had asked back.
And Tarn understood. In that moment, he could have melted down with happiness. Lord Megatron let him suck his spike, then carted him off to berth and made good use of his other hole. Pliant and giving, Tarn cried, whimpered, and babbled out his happiness as Lord Megatron had his way with him. If it meant experiencing this every day, he'd forget his addictions entirely.
But then the very next day, he was made warden of Grindcore. Tarn had no idea why his master would do that, but he took the assignment and learned many things—the fine arts of torture, undying hatred in its purest form, and how to fine-tune his voice so he could make it a weapon of death. Out of love for his absent Lord, he faithfully carried out everything that he was ordered to do and more, awaiting the day he'd be back at his beloved's side, wrapped in his warm embrace once more.
Even after Grindcore being decommissioned, with himself being reassigned yet again and founding the Decepticon Justice Division, he lamented the time spent away from Lord Megatron. He wanted Lord Megatron to call him a good mech, his sweet boy, his pretty pet. He wanted to be fragged stupid and then showered with kisses. But his desires were insignificant when compared to what his love wished, so he carried out every order like a good little pet, crossing off name after name on the List of traitors that needed to be dealt with, taking great pleasure in snuffing out their sparks then trampling all over their still warm corpses for daring to defy his Lord. He'd often spend frustrated nights trying to satisfy himself with custom-made toys, lamenting the time spent away from Lord Megatron, and when the sun dawned on whatever station he was at, he'd go back to work like nothing's wrong.
Still he faithfully carried out everything that he was ordered to do and more. His last target, Skystrike, was a bit hard to deal with—he'd almost gotten himself killed while on the mission—but hopefully the next name on the List should be easier to cross off.
They'd anchored their ship at a nearby base for refueling before they set off for their mission. Tarn sat in the captain's chair, idle, when Kaon hurriedly came over, screaming his name at the top of his intakes. "Tarn, Tarn! You'll never guess who's here!"
"Who?" he asked, without even looking back.
"Lord Megatron! Lord Megatron is here!"
Tarn's spark could have exploded then and there, and nobody would have noticed.
Having Lord Megatron aboard the Peaceful Tyranny is...something, to say the least.
"I was wondering," he'd said, "how efficient my Justice Division truly is, so I decided to personally supervise your next mission."
"But Lord," Tarn'd replied, "Kaleenia might be on the List, but she is way too insignificant for our glorious leader to concern himself with—"
Lord Megatron cuts him off with a hard stare, and a "Your glorious leader wants to accompany you on the hunt, and that is final."
Spark still churning uncontrollably within, Tarn finally says an awkward "Yes, Lord."
"Very well." Lord Megatron gives a curt nod, then settles down smoothly into the captain's chair that Tarn had vacated for him. Flustered, all sorts of sirens blaring loudly in his brain module, Tarn swallows thickly, trying to shove deep down any feelings he might have now. He was now an instrument of justice, existing only to bring pain and suffering to all those who had betrayed the Cause™. That was what his master wanted, so he had to do it.
Tomorrow, the hunt for Kaleenia would begin. He shouldn't allow himself to be distracted.
It was time for recharge. Tarn had given his Captain's Quarters to Lord Megatron, stating that "our Lord deserved only the best we have to offer". When asked about it, he'd shrugged and said that he would just sleep on the bridge. At least, that was what he had planned to do. He still had no idea what he was doing here, sans mask, sitting face to face with the mech he loved.
"I must say, Tarn, your dedication to the Decepticon Empire is truly outstanding, to say the least." Lord Megatron says, indicating to the room all around them, filled to the brim with evidences of Tarn's love, for the Cause™ and the mech who had started it all.
"O—Of course, Lord Megatron," Tarn mumbled, "you mean the universe to me, it was only natural that I'd devote myself to you and your cause—"
His master's crimson optics bore relentlessly into him, and Tarn felt a lump forming in his throat. He swallowed it down, and spoke again, "Lord, may I excuse myself?"
Lord Megatron's helm tilts quizzically. "Excuse yourself?"
"To—to recharge, sir," Tarn hastily says, "I'm going to the bridge."
"No need." Lord Megatron speaks. "Indeed, I have come to supervise your next mission...but I also just wished to meet you."
Tarn cannot believe his audials. His beloved had wished to meet him?
"It wouldn't hurt for devotion such as yours to be rewarded." Lord Megatron says, then he stands, and rounds the little table to get closer to Tarn and stroke his face. "Recharge with me, Tarn. Consider tonight my gift for you."
It took about a klik for Tarn to process it all, and before he could finish processing, soft, plush dermas are on his own. As sudden as it was, Tarn soon opens his mouth to admit Lord Megatron's glossa, tilting his helm back. When Lord Megatron pulled back, a thin string of oral lubricant connected them for a second before breaking, and Tarn takes his master's offered servo to stand, chair clattering to the cold, hard floor. He looks up with needy red optics as he slowly drops to his knees without needing to be ordered, and his love's interface panels full back, revealing a half-hard spike and a soft, supple valve. "Well, Tarn?" his Lord asks, "What are you waiting for?"
Tarn slowly crawls forward, still on his knees, and reaches forward, his sharp thumbs gently prying the valve open. He presses his mouth to the gaping opening, glossa lapping at the soft folds in reverence, plunging deep into his beloved's core, tasting a hint of salty, syrupy sweetness. Lord Megatron lets out a soft grunt and gently cradles Tarn's helm with both servos, pressing him deeper into his groin—a wordless demand for more, and Tarn is all-too-happy to oblige. He pushes his glossa in deeper, quenching his thirst with his Lord's nectar, and fervently sucks on the thick pads, bringing the valve to a smooth, relaxed peak, his own array exposed and dripping, loins clenching, forge chamber aching with cravings.
"Good boy, Tarn, well done." Lord Megatron says, petting Tarn's helm and cheek. "Tell me, how much did you want this?"
"So badly." Tarn says, full of emotion. "Every nano-klik spent away from you—it was torture. If only you knew—"
Lord Megatron chuckles, then pulls Tarn up by the servo to kiss him again. Wrapped in each other's embrace, they fall onto the cold, hard floor together with an audible clang, smiling. Tarn's legs are spread and he's pinned under the large frame of his master, who touches him like he's something precious, something fragile and valuable, thick digits gently prodding at his silken valve, then reaching deeper, further, touching, testing, preparing the way. Tarn whines in anticipation, pawing at his master's shoulders, just waiting to be stuffed full.
"So eager, aren't you?" Lord Megatron croons. Tarn only tightens his hold on him, his pointed digit tips scoring little lines in the silver metal. Then his love's digits leave his valve only to be replaced by something blunt and bulbous and so, so big, something Tarn's all-too-familiar with. He missed having Lord Megatron's spike inside him, being his little cumhole.
A weak "please" escapes Tarn's dermas, a needy little sound, and he grits his dentas as that big spike slowly presses into him, stretching him, filling him. Tears prick the corners of his optics, the sensation almost too much to bear, then Lord Megatron pushes forward all at once, swiftly bottoming out in one fluid motion, tearing a pained yelp from Tarn's voice box, his legs wrapping tightly around his master's waist. It's quickly followed by a desperate "Lord—Master—"
"Tarn," Lord Megatron whispers, cradling the back of Tarn's helm with his left servo, then planting a soft kiss on it.
His beloved smells of spilled not-blood, of blaster fire and death, and there's nothing that turns Tarn on more than that. With tearful optics, he looks up, and chokes out, "Lord, I..."
Lord Megatron places two digits on Tarn's dermas to silence him, then traces them reverently, with a tenderness never seen before, then he reaches down to give Tarn's dripping spike a wet squeeze, before placing both servos on Tarn's hips, pulling back and then shoving in, his thick girth dragging over Tarn's nodes, gently stimulating each and every one. Tarn moans, utterly shamelessly, as his mind drifts off to somewhere he hadn't visited in a while, calm and comfy. This is all he's ever wanted, not the endless torture, the screams of bots as he disposes of them.
Tarn is flying. Of course, he is a grounder, he can't fly, but he's still flying. The world narrows down to Lord Megatron's dermas, servos and spike as he cries out loud, wailing in sheer pleasure, his arms holding the silver frame above him in a crushing grip. His master lavishes kisses upon his helm, faceplate and neck cables, even as he impales him further down his length with every thrust. "My dear Tarn," he says, his words a low rumble, "my loyal one, my lovely siren. Mine."
"Yours," Tarn babbles, "Always, always, always."
"Tell me, pet," Lord Megatron asks, dermas meeting Tarn's in a light brush, "have you thought about this? I know I did, if that helps."
Tarn lets out a little whine. "Yes, Master," he rasps out, "every day. I—I love it when you use me like this, I want to always be filled by you. Please, Lord, I need it—"
Lord Megatron says nothing. He growls, snapping his hips in a harsh thrust forward, wrenching another high-pitched cry from Tarn's intake, then begins plowing him in earnest, his big and deliciously ridged spike plumbing his depths, the blunt tip knocking into his innermost nodes again and again. Tarn's tears spill over, flowing helplessly from his optics as his own spike spurts out rope after rope of transfluid, overloading too soon out of deep love for his Lord. He sobs through his climax, half out of embarrassment, but Lord Megatron simply snorts, and resumes the pounding of Tarn's valve, rutting hard like there's no tomorrow, swiftly wrenching out another peak, then a third and a fourth. Tarn gazes up at his master with adoring optics, brimming with love and pleasure.
"Beautiful..." his beloved mutters, and cups Tarn's face with his servos, wiping tears with his thumbs. "So, do you swear your loyalty to me?" he inquires.
Tarn can only manage a weak "yes" before his legs are spread further, lifted up and hooked on Lord Megatron's shoulders. His love drives in harder, deeper—further ravishing Tarn's abused valve, and he's trapped, nearly bent in half with his master's grip, breath leaving his intakes, tears overflowing, his opening making squelching sounds where his master's spike leaves it then slams back in. He's quaking, weeping and begging for more, not caring if his crew heard him out there. Oh, how he enjoys this—being a little spikesleeve for his glorious leader.
Then finally, finally, Lord Megatron peaks alongside him with a roar, his overload ripping through them both as he marks Tarn's inner walls with his love. Then he pulls out, leaving his precious pet empty and hollow, copious amounts of transfluid oozing down his thighs and puddling on the floor below as his valve keeps clenching around nothing.
Before Tarn can fully process what just happened, he's flipped over harshly so he's now laying on his stomach, then he feels strong servos gripping his hips once more, hauling his aft up into the air, and a thick cord ramming back inside. Tarn yelps at the sudden intrusion, but he's still slick and open from earlier, his Lord's spike slides in so easily now, still so impossibly long and thick, the stretch and burn just right. In mere kliks, he's reduced to a moaning mess, nothing more than fragmetal for Lord Megatron to use. Of course his master would take all the pleasure he could from his sweet siren, and Tarn wanted it. "More," he begs, wriggling his hips to better take in the large spike, "please, more..."
"Greedy little pet." Lord Megatron says. "Now be a good boy and sing for me, will you?"
Tarn obliges. He cries out, voice crackling with static, he moans and mewls like a beastformer in heat, under his master's onslaught of thrusts, brain module short-circuiting. He's lost count of how many overloads he's had. Then Lord Megatron floods him again, until Tarn's thighs and aft are sticky with transfluid. "Thank you, Master..." Tarn mumbles, as his Lord's spike leaves him. He barely has time to recognize the mess he's made, until Lord Megatron tells him, "Now clean it up like the cur you are."
"...Master?" Tarn asks, dazed.
"You heard me." Lord Megatron replies. "Be a dear and clean it all up. Use your glossa, mind you—mutts have no hands so neither have you. Start with my spike and go from there."
Tarn does that, too. Anything for his love. After he'd cleaned Lord Megatron's spike, optics glazed and spark soaring, he took to work, diligently lapping up every speck of silvery-pink from the floor. When he's done, his love gathers him into his arms and mutters "My love. My loyal Tarn, my perfect breeding hole. I love you so much.", then carts him off to berth to do it all over again.
His glorious leader loves him back. Everything is perfect. Wrapped in his master's warm embrace, Tarn drifts off into a long, dreamless sleep.
Tarn wakes up to Lord Megatron taking him nice and slow, fondling him everywhere, trailing possessive kisses upon his neck cables. He gives a small whine, and his love responds with a low chuckle, before turning Tarn's helm to capture his dermas in a heated kiss, then pumping another thick load inside him. Tarn whimpers as his own overload follows soon after, oversensitive valve clamping down on the thick spike inside it.
When he's finished, Lord Megatron pulls out of him, and rolls off to one side. "Did I disturb you, Tarn?" he asks.
"No, sir...thank you." Tarn smiles. "You can have me whenever you want."
"Come, Tarn." says Lord Megatron, sitting up and offering one servo to Tarn. "Let's get you cleaned up. You might want to look presentable for your crew."
They go into the washracks together to clean out yesterday's mess, making out passionately under the flow of solvent. Tarn shivers as his beloved's servos wander all over him, half-anticipating tonight, half-anxious, not wanting to mess up the hunt. After all, his master said that he would be personally supervising this particular mission, if Tarn ever fragged it up, he would be done for, that was all he could think about as he changed the sheets, as he went out into the bridge and greeted Kaon, Vos, Tesarus and Helex, as he set out for the hunt. He's sure everyone's wondering what's gotten into him, what he carried out with such enthusiasm before, now he carries out with an air of necessity, like he's afraid of messing it up.
In the end, Kaleenia is captured, and dealt with, though Tarn isn't sure how many times he's slipped up. But when the team returns with what's left of their prey in tow, Lord Megatron simply smiles and commends them, and tells the other four that he will be borrowing Tarn for the evening. A shiver runs down Tarn's spinal strut at the implication of those words, and he follows his master into the quarters they share now.
Once they're sure there's no one else around, Lord Megatron pulls a thick silver collar from his subspace, strips of metal with gems woven in-between, and the glyphs for "beloved" etched into the front, in bright red. "I've been waiting to give this to you." he says, and Tarn makes no move to object as it's placed around his throat, nor does he make any queries as he's instructed to lie down, spread your legs, stay still.
Tarn does as he's told. Lord Megatron places a kiss on his dermas, and procures another item from his subspace-a stylus, with a swirling ball-like object on the other end, causing Tarn to let out a little squeak.
"Swindle gave me it," his master explains, "he told me to test it on his favorite toy. And it seemed only natural that I tested it on you. No need to worry, this can erase it as well." Then he begins writing on Tarn, starting with an indicator of who he belonged to—Tarn of Megatron, on his inner thigh. It's soon followed by more, cumslut, filthy little whore, insolent beast, and things like that. In no time, he's covered in sweet filth, topped off with the Decepticon brand, right there on his interface panels. Then he's soon made to open up, revealing a straining spike, and a wet valve right below it. Lord Megatron wastes no time in reaching forward, and fondling Tarn's spike, and pumping it up and down—all of it so much, even just this, too much.
"Tell me, Tarn, do you like it when I touch you like this?" he asks.
"Yes, yes, Master," Tarn frantically babbles out, "touch me more, please, put me in my place below you—"
Lord Megatron smirks. His servo leaves Tarn's spike, eliciting a needy whine, then his own panels pull back. His long, thick, beautiful spike springs free from its housing, and Tarn's mouth goes dry. Then, without warning, Lord Megatron reaches out to grasp Tarn's right servo, and place it on his spike. "There," he says, "you may put it in yourself."
Dumbly, Tarn does as he's told, slowly guiding his Lord's spike to his valve until the tip slides in, and even by that, he feels like he's so utterly filled. Lord Megatron takes over from there, and pushes forward until he's fully seated in. He sets a slow pace, fragging Tarn in long, carefully aimed strokes, peppering him with affectionate kisses, and Tarn clings to him desperately, moaning, needy and unashamed.
Tarn's cries and the wet noises from where they're connected drives Lord Megatron even further, urging him to delve deeper—harder—into their shared heat. They exchange heated kisses, and oaths of love, and intense gazes, Tarn reaching his climax over and over again under his love's skilled digits and perfect spike, all traces of the ruthless hunter-warrior gone as he writhes and squirms in pleasure. Then his master trembles above him and comes, filling Tarn up with his seed. He is a generous lover. Even after he has taken his share, his arms ensnare his servant tightly, as if to never let go.
In the tranquil silence, they lie in berth together, panels closed, their breaths mingling in the minimal space between them. Then Lord Megatron rises to pick up the discarded stylus, and uses the ball-like end to erase the marks he'd left on Tarn. "Do you want us to be like this every night?" he inquires.
"Yes, I do." Tarn says. "I also want you to belong to me, as I belong to you."
He's met with a gentle kiss to his cheek. "I will always be yours, my spark." his Lord says, "I am Megatron of Tarn, and that will never change."
Lord Megatron uses Tarn's mouth some time later, and pours out his completion upon Tarn's face as he overloads. Dermas and faceplate painted in his love's seed, Tarn smiles, satisfied.
"Oh, Master," Tarn moans as he's bounced on Lord Megatron's lap, "Oh, Master, I love you, keep going, please—"
"Good slut." Lord Megatron bites. "Pretty little cumhole. So good, so tight around me."
Tarn whines softly, stuffed full of thick, meaty spike. They've never left their quarters today, and he's lost count of his overloads. His valve clamps down tightly on his master's cord as he rises up then sinks back down, a loud clang resonating from where their bodies met. They move together, servos wandering, hips meeting all-the-while, pace ranging from painfully slow to roughly fast, Tarn's forge chamber hungering for Lord Megatron's seed, his arms clinging tightly to the large silver frame as if he's drowning, in desperate need of an anchor.
"My Megatron," he rasps out, nearly forgetting himself.
"My darling, Tarn," his love responds, reaching up with one servo to caress his cheek, then flipping them over so he's now on top of Tarn, strong servos settling on broad hips.
Tarn is startled for a moment, then Lord Megatron really starts fragging him, spike-tip smashing hard into his innermost nodes, making him scream out in rapturous pleasure, talons scoring little lines in silver armor. His master's spike-tip pops into the entrance to his forge as large servos pull on his hips, their lower halves flush against each other, then hot spurts of silvery-pink transfluid is pumped into his forge, filling it to the brim for the nth time that afternoon. He finishes right on his master's heels, clutching tightly onto him, and they fall together, entwined, breathing heavily. Lord Megatron's arms pull Tarn ever closer, and Tarn prays that his Lord's seed might quicken within him.
Gentle kisses are pressed to his helm, and Tarn's sky-spark answers Megatron, his sun and moon and stars, the morning and evening of his day. The center of his universe. He lives to serve his Lord, and all he wants is to serve him like this, to stop fighting forever and just be a fraghole for his glorious leader, carry his heirs in the name of the Cause™. Was that not what he was destined for?...
...
"...arn?"
"Tarn?"
"TARN!"
"Hmm?" Tarn blinks open at the sound of someone calling his name.
"Sheesh," Nickel grumbles above his face, "you were out cold for three days straight! We seriously believed we'd never get you back!"
Oh, so Kaleenia was still out there. The DJD still hadn't gotten her.
But what made it sting all-the-more was that...Lord Megatron didn't really spend three days with him aboard his ship. He was most likely still at HQ, waiting for a report, and love him? No way in hell. There's no way that his Lord would ever love him back, it was only wishful thinking. His frame shakes in defeat, servos curling into fists.
"Huh?" Nickel asks, "What's wrong?"
Tarn can't hear her. All he can think about is the encounter that never happened. "Nickel?" he whispers softly.
"Yeah?" the medic asks, worry written all over her faceplate.
"Can you...leave me alone for a few kliks?" he says. "Please."
"Well, if you put it that way, then alright." she says, then leaves him alone as he wishes. Tarn curls into a ball on the medbay berth, recalling the heat, the sweet words whispered into his audials. Tears prick the corner of his optics, this time, not from overwhelming pleasure.
No matter. He lives to serve his Lord, and if his Lord wants him to be a tool for justice, then that he can be.
Tomorrow, the hunt for Kaleenia would begin. He shouldn't allow himself to be distracted.