There were many things about Tarn that Pharma loathed.
But his face was the worst of it, that prominent Decepticon badge like a constant reminder of Pharma’s shame.
He hated how Tarn peered at him through the ocular slits, optics like brimstone and melted slag.
He especially hated how good it felt to have those ridges and sharp angles scraping over his valve rim. How Tarn’s clawed hands cradled Pharma’s thighs so delicately, keeping his array pressed to Tarn’s mask.
Heated ex-vents caressed his most sensitive plating – damp and scorching. His nub tapped back and forth over the downward point on Tarn’s mask’s nasal ridge. Pharma’s hips rocked, lubricant dribbling freely, surely seeping down to coat Tarn’s actual face.
Pharma shuddered and moaned. His hands clawed the air as his wings fluttered.
Tarn purred, the sound a wave of vibration through Pharma’s center.
He hated how good it felt. How the pleasure rose and crested inside of him, until he ground his desperate valve over that purple badge, again and again and again.
How Tarn hummed as though he savored Pharma’s pleasure. “Again,” Tarn urged.
And Pharma moaned as he started to move, slow and steady, scrapes of rough edges against his swollen rim.
He hated all of it. Especially how he couldn’t seem to get enough.