#his broken Seekerkin coding has latched onto a bondmate and the babies and it's making progress to keep Tarn focused on them

[witchofthesouls]

How are the mornings between Tarn and the wife?

Because Tarn is Tarn and his headspace is very weird, he didn't develop a sex addiction... he developed one for intimacy instead.

While many things changed with your inclusion, the most crucial parts hadn't. Tarn begins his cycle by reciting the passages of Megatron's works that speak to him or the next Listed the most beneath his Lord's cold visage immortalized in glorious pieces. He still does it, but in the comfort of the berth, where he includes the newsparks in the exercise.

He does it quietly inside in mind, careful not to stir you or the clutches. The first trio had tumbled their way back to the shared quarters, curling up between you and him, encased in the nest of sheets and padding, purring in their sleep at Tarn's return and your presence.

The second clutch is tiny. More head and tank with stumpy limbs and swaddled in Vos' newest pieces that feature hooks and bloody gears. They sleep nestled above inside a hollowed space that once served as a datapad rest and a charging point that's been repurposed to a controlled cradle. Under the carving of Megatron's stony expression and your knife-sharp observation.

Tarn is well-aware of what the other Decepticons are saying, and they can't be further from the truth. You're not a soft individual. You're a vicious one, and you turn that ferocity onto yourself.

In the wetlands where the third clutch was sparked, you bared your spark the same way you bared your teeth: possessive with brutal efficiency. Tearing through the induced heat with the same intensity as you tear through Deadzone's corpse or refined Overlord's downfall.

You have never known peace. Whatever softness that isn't part of the natural reaction of your swelling protoform during carriage, you had to incise it from your scarred spark. Gentleness is a lost word to you. It's buried beneath so much Energon and violence that you need to claw it out from nightmares to raise the sparklings with a softer touch.

The sparklings are open and guileless with a trust that leaves him floundering at times. Small and completely reliant on others, on him.

You never held it against Tarn. Instead, you guide his hands on how to hold and care for them and guide his field on how to modulate the newsparks' rapid tempo into something more slow and easy without overwhelming them.

Tarn's habsuite has become more sacred than a Primal temple, graced by an intimacy greater than any physical joinery or scent marking. Beneath the aroma of newborn metal, sparking fuel, faint ozone and bodily fluids, and the tang of polish and oil, all of his personal belongings have the echoes of the little family imprinted upon them.

After the Overlord incident, Tarn now works his way through the cupboard to ensure each sheet and cover, every blanket and pillow had been utilized by you and the clutches long enough to lock in the unique biosignatures.

Everyone knows that he burnt the last berth with all the articles due to Overlord's and your Energon upon them. Tarn never spoke about how much he loathed how much Overlord destroyed the biosignatures, engulfing it all under the Phase Sixer's field until all was left was sadistic bloodlust, your feverish triumph, and the second clutch's confused terror at the forced emergence.

(Quietly and only his spark, he mourns that he doesn't have anything that's been touched by both carriages. Nothing will have the little tinges of both clutches' development within your frame and biosignature.)

You either have an excellent sense of timing or deep awareness for private matters because Tarn finishes the silent deliverances, and you're staring at him with half-lite optics at his bared face. Without a word and careful not to prod the sparklings, you straddle Tarn, sinking upon him with a well practiced motion. You pull the leash taunt, Tarn's vocalizer clicks uselessly, purposely rendered impotent in the fear he damages the bitlets, and he shivers at the stony expression between you and Lord Megatron. Fields still in careful moderation to not jolt the sparklings, but when you place a hand over his neck, digging sharpened talons into the scarring where you bit him. Between the firm possessive touch claim, your clenching valve, and the fresh scent of his own Energon, Tarn can't even whimper as he overloads.