#aka how to train a skittish tank with a dog leash

[witchofthesouls]

Any chance you'll do a snippet of Donor Tarn finally plowing the nurse?

Your frame's exhausted and your energy has flagged from the triple shift where you needed to melt and reforge new components because Tesarus chose to pick a fight with the only animal this side of the galaxy that's capable of melting military-grade armor outside of ununtrium.

Besides an extended medical stasis, internal scarring, and mandatory physical therapy because you made plans for a blow dart with a powerful sedative to numb the connective nerve relays in a Titan's limb should the mech try to avoid it, the idiot will live another day.

But not even the heedy call of carriage-induced lust could drive away the strut-weary fatigue.

Perhaps it's your facial expression and tone as you look over your shoulder. Perhaps Tarn has had enough of your rocking as you squeeze your mesh and cycle the calipers for the fourth time for some rest, but he gives only a token protest to trying a different position.

Never in your life did you think you had to do this, but here you are, coaxing a mech into an optimal rutting position. A mech who had no qualms over a collar meant for destructive pets (no matter what the sex shop said, you can tell from the quality material and the bell), but fusses over active participation in interfacing.

While he still has that wall-staring habit, he's able to touch you a bit. Large servos with thankfully blunted fingertips wrap around your waist as he carefully moves behind you, berth creaking from weight distribution and bell chiming, that spike is a hefty weight upon your inner thigh.

You're used to a mecha smacking your aft or tugging on a wing with a stupid comment or playful tease since “mounting from behind” is generally the best way to settle heats.

Tarn's quiet. His frame, however, speaks volumes. He's dumping heat into the air as the newly freed back vents hissed and steamed as he came up-right. His field is a heavy blanket and tangled into yours, hunger and want undeniable and it weighs over you, adding to your own. His spike throbs, hot and heavy and still slick, and your valve echoes in sympathy, magnetically drawn to its close perimeter.

You're murmuring words of encouragement as he nudges your valve with his spike. The blunt tip catches but slides across the rim to kiss your anterior node with its ridges. You need to reach between your knees and guide him. It pulses as you use your fingertips to hold him in place to your swollen folds, coaxing Tarn to rock forward to pass the first ring of your valve.

“Good, very good,” you groan as he finally gives enough force and pressure to breach it. You do a firm tug on the leash when he tries to stop, unsure even with his spike crackles with charge inside you, melting your more than willing mesh and nodes primed and pinging calipers to cycle wider.

You're drenched. His spike is just as worked up and blazing to go. Caminus is in such a deep sleep that only city-speakers can interact with him. Deadzone is still dead. And this is currently your life, guiding a severely repressed mech who's a bureaucratic executioner that's deeply confused over natural processes related to sex.

It takes a bit, but you finally have him fully hilted, valve quivering and eager at this new phenomena. You give the leash slack to allow Tarn leeway, and he thankfully picks up the cue.

It isn't a true thrust, more like a strong rock, but he puts his weight into it, and that punches the carrier-coding into an excited tizzy.

A sharp, electrifying shock sizzles up your spinal struts to the tips of your sensory panels that you almost miss Tarn's question to move you.

“That's fine.” If your voice strains, Tarn doesn't comment on it. Actually, he rarely speaks at these sessions, especially what happened when he accidentally triggered his sigma ability.

Tarn shifts your hips, and the new angle surprises the hell out of you. You thought he reached everything at this point.

Apparently not.

Your valve pulses helplessly as the new alignment causes the grooves and treads to constantly slide directly over clusters of nodes, never leaving them instead of inconsistent grazing as well as press the crown directly to the inlet and its surrounding nodes.

That involuntary surprised noise you make causes a spike of worry from the mech, and you feel the intention to withdraw.

NO, went your sparked-heavy frame. You yank the leash, pulling hard enough to jolt Tarn and his hips forward, and charge surges embarrassingly fast along with a high-pitched needy keen from your throat as he catches himself, almost crushing you. The mech covers you completely, and the bell jingles right over your head.

Your frame likes it. Your valve likes it. You like it.

So you do the reasonable thing and pull the leash taunt, wrapping it around your wrist and hand, so Tarn can't get off without ripping a body part.

You cut off hearing because you really didn't want a log of the noises coming out of your mouth. You already have to deal with the intimate knowledge of how much that spike not only excites the carrier-coding, but the deep-frame instincts and your overworked valve as a new wave of lubricant coats said spike and your thighs.

It's bad enough to feel strung out by a stuttering, unsure pace, but you needily meet Tarn's hips because coding demands it.

That leash, the vague thought burbles somewhere that's still rational and not spike-hungry, is the greatest last-minute joke purchase you've done.

And the thought flitters away when Tarn finally hits a good and steady rhythm as he's guided by your yanking. Soon, with every harsh pull, your chamber gets heavier and heavier, which delights the carrier-coding as a new wave of charged transfluid registers to it.

Moremoremore, it chants, and your sensory panels flare out with the wide expanse tilted and trying to tempt another Seekerkin by exposing seams. Bite me, your frame screams as another overload crashes over you. Valve clenching hard enough to keep an imprint, shrieking in overwrought pleasure as another burst of transfluid hits the back of it, and your frame jolts forward, only held in place by his grip and frame. Make a claim!

Luckily, Tarn remains blissfully ignorant of Seekerkin behavior and wingcant cues, and will remain so because you won't tell him.

And because Tarn is awkward and polite and very much a professional outside the walls, you send a quick prayer to Solus that he'll never bring up whatever is currently coming out of your mouth, even as you squirm and yowl like a turbofox in heat.

Suddenly, it's over.

You're both full and empty. Trying to come down from the carriage-induced high and turn your hearing back on.

Your entire self is gasping, vents wheezing as the tertiary systems struggle to cool your frame since Tarn is just as molten against your back.

Your belly is full, and your valve is empty, and it hates that fact. It drools and twitches, even left gaping, calipers blunted to their widest setting, it still wants. You're pretty sure if your chamber isn't currently stuffed to the brim, the pesky coding would have triggered a frame-lock to keep that spike inside you before it tucked away.

You have no idea how you managed to get your legs to take your weight, but you're fairly sure you did a full body rub as you choke out a thanks. Tarn looks just as flustered as well. Even his treads sag, separating out to rapidly cool down, biolights burning a searing bright pink.

Because his pelvis and thighs and berth are a mess. It's absolutely safe to bet that you look just as well used and destroyed.

You wobble out and into the hall towards the direction of your habsuite and the medbay because you're not picky on the location to crash and recover.