#got to add in sensitive medic hands somewhere😅🤣

[witchofthesouls]

(Sixshot implemented his trap and hot, quiet sex in a closet with lactation kink.)

Triage stares at the twitchy Phase Sixer to the broken access panel to the supply closet to the cradle-pen full of sleepy newsparks and back to Sixshot.

He wants no part of the madness that has another Warrior Elite acting bizarre in the mindfuck of a reality where the Commander of the Justice Division has a Conjunx with bitlets.

“Get on the medberth. Might as well do a full workup.”

________

The mask is cold and chipped, but the exposed lower portion of Tarn's face is feverish. Ragged lips tentatively brush over a leaking nozzle, and a warm glossa laps over it before dragging it into a hot mouth. You shudder, mind swimming as Tarn's highly-charged state electrifies the air in the closet. Even with his iron determination not to meld into your field, the direct physical contact drops you deep inside the heady storm of repressed lust and code-driven urges.

Your servos buzz as you stroke his helm and back as he drinks. The growing heat crackles in your palms and fingers, surging across your neuralnet and ignites the carrier-coding straight to your groin-

Your panel shifts with little warning.

You barely managed to choke down the hitching noise from your throat and reroute the cooling fans to the lowest setting as your valve drools, pinging that it's achingly empty and clenching on nothing, wanting to be filled by a spike.

It gets its wish.

It takes very little coaxing to get Tarn's spike out as he shifts, letting go of the teat.

You see the shine of his solvent and your own fuel on his lips as the blunt tip of his spike noses your folds. The piercings have collected small bits of charge, and it sends a sharp shiver up your spinal struts, door wings fluttering as your nodes throb trying to link up with every nudge.

Your folds are slick, lower belly tight from learned anticipation from consistent clanging and a code-deep response to Tarn's edging rut. Even with the wetness and prefluids, there's slight resistance from the outer ring, calipers cycling from being fed bits of charge from the piercings and treads. You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him in. There's that sinful stretch as he sinks into you, valve confused before clenching hard to keep an imprint. You're addled as carrier-coding sings, melting your insides to slag when he finally hilts.

His helm drops down, and Tarn presses an open mouth to the other well, still heavy with fuel. He suckles on the protoform, and fuel leaks from the nozzle, pinging to your overwhelmed systems. You shift and his entire frame groans, vibrating everything, and you desperately cling to the distance noise of a medical examination just outside the door to stop your own engines from throttling at the familiar crackling rush of transfluid at the back of your valve.

You arch back to give him better access, and Tarn takes it. He leaves a wet trail to lap up the dribbling fuel and latches onto the nozzle. The other teat pings out, missing that hot glossa and mouth upon it.

He's so worked up that the charge from his spike easily spits into the nodes within your valve, looping a circuit without friction. There's another rush, and you cling onto him, legs tightening, keeping flushed against his housing as your valve needily ripples.

He's the furnace, and you're the crucible, and you're hanging on by the thinnest chain on your sanity, trying to keep quiet as he drinks and more heat pooling into you as time passes.

You don't know that possesses you, but you start purposely clenching your valve, calipers pushing and pulling along the thick girth. It takes a moment to trace the treads on the entire length, pressing nodes-

Tarn rumbles, shifting to push against you, letting go of the nozzle. His mouth is parted, scarred lips shining with solvent and fuel.

And he's voiceless as his frame hisses steam, rumbling in a low gear.

You wrap a hand around his neck, and he leans into it, putting his weight upon the crate and the wall. Tarn's musculature shifts and flexs beneath your servo, the vibrations and soft clicks of a silenced vocalizer as he noiselessly gasps, pressing harder into the hungry, milking grip.

You also don't know what posesses you to shift your hand upwards, sliding the thumb across his lips and into his mouth-

Between his glossa swirling your thumb and the rhythm of his throat under the rest of your fingers, the dual influx across your servo finally tips you over.

Door wings scrap on the wall as you choke. Your frame purrs in satisfied bliss as more transfluid floods your chamber in thick, heavy bursts. You feel him groan, noise deep within his chassis, and you slip your hand out to grab his shoulder as he sags onto the wall.

The carrier-coding content as you and him pant in the sweltering air, your legs twitching whenever his spike does. Quiet easily settles, but it needs to be broken.

_______

After Triage left, Sixshot blocked the room with his own bulk, glaring at the door. He stretched the entire ordeal as long as he could, allowed extra poking and prodding and testing.

He can tell something is happening. His nose doesn't lie. A condensed storm of ‘facing had been brewing in it, but then again Tarn had been strolling around without giving into it…

Surprisingly, the newsparks barely fussed through the entire thing. Either they're too used to whatever riot that's happening in a ship and medbay, or they're content with their carrier nearby.

Of course, they wake up when a purple fist busts open the closet door. Sixshot immediately sneezes in quick succession at the overwhelming scents of ozone, lubricant, transfluid, and sparkling-grade fuel in scorchingly charged air floods the unit.

Hail Megatron, Praise the Conclave, and may the door rest in pieces, Tarn had managed to rut it out to restore his usual prissy, collected self. That may have been the base's quietest clang session, but Sixshot didn't want the disturbing intimate details of what the leader of the D.J.D. enjoyed in the berth.

Your sensory panels remain unfortunately unclaimed, and you frown at his grimace as you fuss over the cradle-pen full of active, chirping bits.

He can't hold in the snort when you and Tarn play a polite fiction. Sure, the walking fury of a violent lust cocktail was helping his frustrated carrier “find that tubing” inside a closet for the past groon. Oh yeah, sure. Mm-hm.

As long Tarn doesn't bomb the air with his own rampant lust and hunger during meetings and debriefings, it's fine.