robothell | [ OPEN ]

Guess who is going to kick the door down after absolutely not having read the sign?

"WE HAVE A SITUATION!"

Also, no, you don't want to know how Spinister knows where you live, buddy.

The purpose of the sign was to keep his privacy and ward people away, not attract people to bother him. The heat lancing through Brainstorm's frame had made it impossible for him to actually get any work done, save for maybe repurposing some of his previous projects to shove up his valve or cram his spike into it.

That was just about as dangerous as it sounded.

Brainstorm was in the middle of the extremely busy bought of burying his face in his arms and groaning miserably over the charge rippling through his frame over a desk when Spinister busts in through his door. It startles him hard enough he flops back off his chair and clanks on the floor.

"Do you know how to read?!"

"I DO!"

... Spinister picks up the door and gently places it back in place.

"So you got it too?" he asks, striding over to pick Brainstorm off the ground and setting him back in his chair for a good measure. "Everyone I've met has it except me!"

"I put a sign on the door for a reason!"

Brainstorm is cranky and miserable, but he's generally cranky and mean to most people so there might not be much of a visible difference to Spinister. The answer to the not-question comes as a full body shudder when the rotory picks him up; the jet's plating clamps tighter to his frame in response, even if it traps more heat in.

"Good for you," he says, his optics blazing with heat. "Aren't you worried it might be contagious?"

Maybe it will get the mech to go away. He's not even currently thinking about how Spinister knew where he lives, his thoughts more preoccupied by the ache between his legs and trying not to leak lubricant all over the seat while there was company.

"I know, right!" Spin chirps, walking off to go dig out a jug of coolant from... wherever it would be in this mess. Somehow, he manages to find it and come back about a minute later.

"Anyways, I'm already infected," he snorts, setting said jug down. "It's spores from a flower around here. It gets inside the vents and builds charge up since it's magnetic. See, I got it with me!" Cue said flower being placed down on the desk in front of Brainstorm. Along with a cup of coolant.

"So, do you need me to jack you off, or?"

Brainstorm's clutter of a workshop might actually resonate with Spinister. Everything had it's place, but to most optics it would seem a chaotic mess. The jet liked it that way. It meant less people could find things he didn't want them to touch.

He manages to focus his optics on the flower settled in front of him and he takes the stem between shaky fingers, turning it around in his hand. He's already infected, so he doesn't have much worry about... worsening the symptoms.

"You're just carrying-- I, what?" Brainstorm doesn't finish the question, since Spinister's has him sputtering. It has the opposite effect on his frame than he wanted, the ache turning into an insistent throb as his spike pressurizes against his closed covers with a thump.

"How are you-- How are you acting so normal?"

WHAT'S YOUR SECRET, SPIN?

"I dunno," Spinister answers helpfully, nudging the mug of coolant closer to Brainstorm's face. "I checked my vents and there were plenty of spores in there, but they weren't doing anything. Logged my charge levels and there was no weird spikes or anything either. I'm just immune for some reason."

Shrugging, the heli goes off to find a stool to sit on. "You should loosen your plating up before you overheat. Or at least drink at coolant."

Plopping the stool down, Spinister perches himself atop of it staring at Brainstorm like some demented pink robot owl.

"If you're too tense for that, I can give your wings some rubs?"

That was-- That was amazing! For a moment Brainstorm lifts his head, his optics alight with scientific curiosity as he stares at Spinister. He had to study him to figure out why he was immune. There must be, he didn't know, some reason why wing rubs sounded so nice right now.

What was he thinking about before?

"That wouldn't be... too terrible," he agrees reluctantly, his optics a bit out of focus from trapping all that heat in. His fans were spinning wildly, struggling to cool down his overcharged frame.

And look, coolant. He opens the fuel slot in his wrist and idly grabs his funnel, placing it in. Even the slide of the funnel into the hole felt good, almost erotic, and his plating ripples as he shivers.

There's a series of CLONK CLONK CLONKs as Spinister hops the stool over to a spot behind Brainstorm. He takes a moment to crack his finger joints and then gets to work, spreading his arms and flattening his palms against the warm flat surface of the other flier's wings.

"So anyways, I ran into a few people and they all have the same symptoms for the most part asides from one or two who said they were just feeling weirdly cuddly?" he starts rubbing in slow circles, working his fingers into the seams to encourage them to spread. "And the horny folks were either normal horny or insanely horny, so it seems to affect different people differently for some reason."

Brainstorm groans as Spinister's fingers spread over his wings, his plating over sensitive from the charge rippling through him. He'd tried to clear his vents of the pollen but it was difficult to scrape all of it out without damaging his circuitry. This wasn't too bad, though it made it hard to keep a steady hand as he pours coolant into his fuel lines.

"Affection and the urge to frag are... generally connected?" Duh. It was obviously affecting one certain part of the brain, but how it went about was likely varied by body chemistry.

Brainstorm happened to be more of a romantic, but just because he generally chose to abstain didn't mean he had a drive and well-- his frame was really reminding him of that right now. No amount of overloads seemed to keep the charge at bay for long. He groans again, the tension starting to leave his wings, and he flops himself face forward into his desk again.

"They are, but I don't think that really matches up with how the spores seem to affect people?" Spinister absently follows Brainstorm as the smaller jet flops down, keeping up the firm rubs.

"I mean, I have a pretty active sex life myself. Well, had a pretty active sex life." It's since dried up and become a bit of a desert ever since he's landed here. "I didn't really ask anyone else about their sex lives, but I probably should've now that I think about it."

Time to get uncomfortably nosy with people. For epidemiology!

"So do you have a really active sex life?"

Why was Spinister telling him about his sex life? He didn't want to know about his sex life! Brainstorm just wanted to receive his wing rubs in peace and then jerk off until he puked. He slaps Spinister with one of his wings, playing it off like a twitch.

"W-What's that have to do with anything?"

Less talk and more rubbing. He might actually overload from the touch alone; it was building charge, arcing over the gun barrels connected to his shoulders and crawling over Spinister's fingers. His plating felt tight, suffocating, and he has to press a hand over his codpiece.

"What if it's- ow!- what if it's correlated somehow?"

Spinister flicks the tip of Brainstorm's stray wing in return. He's given Misfire enough wingrubs to know when a jet was being smart with him, goddamnit.

Fortunately for Brainstorm though, Spinister does get the hint and shuts up. That, or the charge tingling through his sensitive fingers is making it a bit harder to concentrate on formulating theories on pollen stuff.

Either way, there's a sudden silence as the heli-former concentrates, kneading the ball of his thumbs into the seam between wing and aileron, static dancing over his fingertips.

Was Cybertron getting a chuckle out of him because of his long term virginity? That didn't seem particularly fair! That had been his choice, not because he didn't have any opportunities. But Spinister here wasn't despite the spores, and Brainstorm really had to stop that train of thought before he really started wondering why the 'Con had apparently been a sex champion.

Too late for that.

Brainstorm's optics are squinted in a look that almost can be passed for pleasure, but really he was just concentrating really hard on keeping his paneling closed, his hand still pressed tight to it. And the rubbing did feel sinfully good, working into spots with sensitive wiring that hadn't had much touch beyond repairs and upgrades for years. A shudder courses through his frame, his plating rippling as he expels more heat, each little touch going straight to his array.

"Nnh," Brainstorm grunts involuntarily, his wings limp in Spinister's hands.

He was leaking through his panels, all over the stool, and he'd be more embarrassed over it if his mind wasn't a complete fuzz of charge. The rubbing just felt so good he-- Brainstorm's frame tenses up as his charge peaks and breaks, rippling over his armor as he's pulled into a painful overload. He twitches with every spurt and contraction of his spike, pressed hard and pressurized behind his cover, and the fluid has nowhere to go but leak from the seams and onto his hand.

That was probably the most embarrassing overload he's ever had.

The charge bursts between the seams of Spinister's hands he has to stop, fingers curled against Brainstorm's wings, optics over bright and knees clamped against the sides of his stool. He watches Brainstorm's overload peak, sharp as a knife, and then slowly begin to ebb, utterly still except for the muted whirr of his fans.

"You alright?" Spin manages after a long moment, gingerly peeling his tingling hands off of the flier's wings. The sight of Brainstorm shivering, palm pressed to his pelvic armor and fluids dripping off the chair was... well, it was certainly doing Things to his libido.

Carefully pushing off the stool, he steps closer and reaches out to place his hands over the desk on either side of the jet, framing Brainstorm's overheated body. He leans down, closer, but not close enough to touch just yet.

"Want me to keep going?"

Aside from downing in a sea of humiliation, Brainstorm was doing pretty okay. He was still shivering in a post-overload haze, but it did help bring some of the edge off. Not all of it, but it was enough not to be painful.

Except now he was sticky and wet and his armor was making soft pinging sounds as it cooled slightly in the colder air. His optics were dim and distant, unfocused on nothing really from where his head was resting against his arm. He groans softly, refusing to move his hand from his panel, mainly because he was afraid to see what sort of mess he had made of himself.

"This is terrible. It's distracting, I can't get any work done, I ache all over. There has to be some way I can turn it into a wea--"

Brainstorm feels the plush ripple of Spinister's field against him mid-thought and instead of finishing that, his attention is drawn to the warmth of the frame looming over him and the shadow against his back. He can feel the hot air blowing from the heli's vents against his struts and Brainstorm peels his hand away from the briefcase and lifts his head, accidentally smacking it into Spinister's chest.

"I thought you were immune."

"I just watched you overload from wing rubs," Spinister answers reasonably, smothering a grin at the way Brainstorm's helmet bounced off his chest. It was really cute.

Brainstorm was really cute.

It made Spin want to push him down over the desk and give him an ache to really complain about. He very gently squishes that urge down under a lid, keeps his hands firmly on the table and leans back, giving the jet more room to maneuver.

"You can say no and I'll go. If you say yes, I'll stop if you say so, whenever you say so."

"Oh. Really?"

That made entirely too much sense. Brainstorm hadn't thought about it that way; he wasn't too used to being the object of anyone's sexual desire. He was kind of an ass and well aware of that. It never bothered him too much. He was lonely, sure, but he was kind of a romantic.

He gives Spinister a somewhat suspicious look, his narrowed opics directed towards the mech's arms framing his body. Having him so close made made his spark pulse quicker in its casing and heat drain straight down between his legs. That uncomfortable throb returns, his array feeling too hot and cramped behind his covers.

Oh my god, this was the worst. Was he going to be like this all the time around other people?

Brainstorm gives a defeated groan and finally moves his hand. It's slick and stained with fluids as he lifts it and holds it awkwardly, uncertain what to do with it. Without his hand holding his covers firmly shut, they helpfully snap right open, spilling more fluid out on the stool. All right, going to try and salvage some dignity here. He tries acting like he did that on purpose. Act cool.

"Fine, okay. What are you goin to do?"

One metaphorical brow goes up at Brainstorm's realization. The second metaphorical brow goes up when the scientist takes his hand off his covers.

"Well," Spinister manages, static lacing his voice as he watches the flood of fluids. "If you're up for it, I was just thinking I could make you overload until you couldn't walk straight."

Peeling one hand off the table's edge (when had he started started gripping it do hard anyways?), Spin reaches out to gently take Brainstorm's lube slicked hand by the wrist.

"Anything you want to try out while we're at it?" he asks conversationally, rubbing his thumb over Brainstorm's palm. "Also, is there anything you don't like?"

That. That sounded great. Brainstorm groans at the suggestion and remains mostly limp as Spinister takes his hand. He's never really indulged the thoughts of casual interfacing before, especially when he can satisfy most of his appetites and kinks solo with a bit of creativity, but right now it sounded really lovely.

"Anything I--?" He starts, sounding a bit dazed, and he looks at the Decepticon like he was some kind of mad mech, gaze devoid of comprehension for a moment.

"Unless you're going to force feed me or cram something down my spike -- I've tried that before and it didn't end well -- I'm. Everything? Everything sounds good."

He didn't really know what to anticipate, but that didn't quite matter so much at the moment. He might even get by without telling Spinister about his virginity.

"You don't just cram things down your spike, you very gently slide things down your spike, okay," queue displeased huff of air as Spinister trails his free fingers down Brainstorm's back. "It's not made to stretch out like ports are and you ought to do it carefully."

Fortunately for Brainstorm, Spinister stops his little lecture there- and it's definitely a lecture, because Spin's had to sit a whole battalion down and talk to them about how to safely experiment with sounding. You wouldn't believe the amount of times Spin's had to deal with some poor sod getting a foreign object lodged down their shafts- or worse!

"Alright, so." Distracting himself from sounding lecture flashbacks, Spin curls his hand under Brainstorm's aft, thick digits sliding against the folds of his valve. The heli-former presses his mask against the back of the inventor's neck, voice dropping a couple octaves. "My plan is that we warm you up first with some fingering. Then I'm going to tie your arms behind your back and lay you out on this desk and we'll see how many toys you can take in one go. Is that alright?"

Brainstorm waves his fingers dismissively at the half lecture Spinister started, but he flops it down on the desk half way into the gesture. Words. Just words. He'd done sounding. Who does he take him for? An idiot? He knows to take it gentle.

"How do you know I have any?"

Primus, does that suggestion go straight to his interface equipment. As Spinister's hand creeps between his legs, it's wet almost instantly after; he's been far too ready too long. Brainstorm arches his back as he abandons the chair and gets up on wobbly feet, spreading his thighs a little wider.

The back of his helm presses against the copter's shoulder as he pushes back, not trusting himself to lift his hands from the desk until he he felt steady enough. Even then he lifts it just for a moment to take Spinister's other hand and tug it towards his aching spike.

"Don't get too used to this."

"If you don't then I got, like, three, I can put together," Spinister shrugs, letting Brainstorm guide his hand down to his cord, gliding the tips of his fingers down the length of it.

"They're a bit big though, so you'd probably fit only one." He curls two thick fingers into the wet heat of Brainstorm's valve, thumb circling his exterior node as lube drips down his wrist.

"More if you really wanna work at it," the heli continues absently, kicking the chair out of the way so that he could press the smaller flier chest-down against the tabletop, shoving his thigh up between Brainstorm's to spread them further. "Maybe."

As for the matter of getting used to this? Spinister puffs a vent of hot air in amusement and works his fingers deeper into quivering clench of Brainstorm's valve, free hand delicately teasing the slit at the tip of his cord.

"Three?" It's pretty obvious from Brainstorm's tone of voice he wasn't entirely focusing on all the words that Spinister was saying. He's much more pliable than usual as he's pushed down, optics squinted, his venting puffs of steam in the cool air of his workshop.

To his credit, at the very least he caught that part since it was difficult to concentrate on anything besides what was going on between his legs. His port is so wet that Spin's fingers find little resistance, but Brainstorm groans and squirms as his calipers are spread, rippling and squeezing them as they push deeper.

"Lied. Got some. Go for it," he mumbles, his voice slurred, and Brainstorm produces as key hidden in a wrist slot soon after, holding it loosely in his fingers.

He can't really figure out which hand he wants to buck into, so instead Brainstorm settles into awkwardly rocking between. Each squeeze around his spike seemed to draw up a new glob of fluid, dripping stickily onto his workspace floor to join the mess his valve has made.

For one overload, there's a lot of fluid everywhere. Brainstorm considered getting his gushing toned back some with a medic, but then again, he sort of liked it. Normally, he was the only one present to deal with it, but right now it was ensuring his thighs and array were very, very slick for Spinister's hands.

"You're so messy," Spin breathes against the back of Brainstorm's neck, twisting his fingers inside the confines of his friend's body, firmly working his fist up the length of the teal mech's cord. "Just look at this mess. How're we going to clean up a dirty little thing like you?" He delicately seeks out the bundles of sensors tucked in the valve's slick mesh walls, the underside of the cord and he listens to the slick, wet noises, the resulting drip of thick fluids.

"So what box does this open?" the heli purrs, letting go of the poor guy's cord so that he could pick the offered key up with sticky hands. He makes up for the slack by pushing his fingers in so deep that the tips curled neatly against the bundle of nerves at the very end of Brainstorm's valve.

Hooooly slag this was hot? Why was this so hot? He has very specific fantasies of being tied down and domi-- oh, haha. Well, that did explain some things. Each twist of Spinister's hand in his valve made his own hands twist on the desktop, clenching and unclenching. Charge ripples over his frame, traveling down his spine and over his wings, and it builds in his gut, making his spike throb as the heli's hand strokes up the over sensitive plates.

"Back storage?" He doesn't sound so sure. To be fair, he wasn't so sure. "B-"

His answer cuts off with a cry as Spinster's fingers shove in deep. Brainstorm's valve clenches down hard, his calipers cycling over the digits pressing in deep and his armor rattles as his charge spikes, coming so close to another overload but not quite making it.

He does make a mess of his legs, slick with a fresh gush of lubricant.

"Bombs! Ohsweetprimuskeeptalking."

Letting the keyring slip down his pinky, Spinister cups his hand over Brainstorm's throat, listening to the cry he'd wrenched from his friend and feeling the resonance of it through his digits.

"Fucking pit," he laughs giddily against the base of the other flier's shoulder turrets. "You're so hot." Brainstorm gets about a second of reprieve before Spin's slowing spreading his fingers apart against the orgasmic fluttering of his valve walls-

"Wait. 'Bombs'?" Suddenly, distracted, Spinister comes to a dead halt, still knuckle deep in the jet. Sorry Brainstorm, but the guy's got a bit of a one track mind.

"What, you labelled your sex toy box 'Bombs' so people wouldn't mess with it?"

That wonderful stretch has Brainstorm gasping as he writhes against the table under Spinister's bulk and be brings his hands together so he can squeeze something. This felt wonderful. Maybe it was the charge or Spinister was really good with his hands. His attempts at creating this type of experience didn't really come close.

When Spinister stops he lets out a groan of frustration, bucking back into the lax fingers still pressed in him.

"No!" He grunts, teeth gritting behind the mask. It's hard to tell if he was more forcefully protesting the stopping or the question. "I didn't label it bombs. I hid them in the bottom of the bomb box."

There's a long moment of Spinister's mental gears working through this revelation and then...

"That doesn't sound very sanitary."

Yes, because that's definitely the first thing you'd be concerned about in a boxful of bloody bombs. He doesn't have the courtesy to keep fingering Brainstorm either, no: the heli was actually drawing back and carefully pulling his fingers free, sticky lube trailing after them in thick, glossy strands.

"Fold your hands behind your back," he orders, casually grinding his thigh up between Brainstorm's spread legs, smearing fluids over the jet's already messy array. "Wrists together." Popping a roll of thick cable from his hip compartment, Spin pins the loose end between two sticky fingers and starts unspooling it, key jingling quietly with his movements.

That long moment felt like several years in which Brainstorm was trying in vain to fuck himself against the stationary fingers. If Spinister wasn't going to fingerbang him, he was going to have to take matters in his own hands.

"The key's for the box at the bottom of the bomb box."

Duh.

As Spinister draws back, Brainstorm's wings go rigid with offense and he pushes himself off the desk slightly to look back at the heli.

"Oh, come on. Couldn't you have gotten another overload out of me first? I was really close!"

Despite the complaining he figures he might as well get into position anyway, since that was part of the plan. It takes him a moment to unhook his cuff from the briefcase and reposition himself and his arms so he could put them behind his back without awkward straining. He wouldn't ever leave his briefcase like this usually.

Right now getting fucked sounds a lot better than a time machine though. He takes advantage of the thigh between his legs, grinding down on it and smearing more fluid over the metal. If left to his own devices, he'd probably just ride Spinister's thigh to overload again.

He even has the cuff dangling helpfully as he crosses his wrists behind his back, even though Spinister had that cabling there.

"This right?"

"Oooohh." Yeah, that makes way more sense than just piling it all under some bombs. What was Spinister thinking?

"If you beg nicely, I might," he offers jovially when Brainstorm protests. What an offended little thing! Spin's optics slant in mirth as he watches little grey wings tremble indignantly while he gets into position. "And yeah, that's right."

Once the scientist finished crossing his hands, Spin loops a bit of cord through the detached end of Brainstorm's cuff and starts tying the teal wrists together. The way the fellow was bucking against his thigh was distracting and extremely hot, but Spinister concentrates, tightening the cord until it was juuuust on the verge of discomfort before drawing the wrists up and looping the cord around Brainstorm's cannon. It goes under his shoulder next, set against the sensitive joint there, then back to his canon before he repeats the pattern in reverse on his friend's other side. It finishes up with a tidy little knot just above Brainstorm's elbows.

"Aren't you just pretty," the heli comments, leaning back to admire the sight, drawing his thumb up Brainstorm's forearm. He places his palm against the middle of Brainstorm's back and lets the smaller jet bear some of his weight.

"Get me a leg bar and we can just leave you in the city center for everyone to watch." Teasingly light, Spinister circles his fingers over the edges of the drenched port, then lower to stroke at the base of Brainstorm's cord. "You're gushing enough to replace the fountain anyways."

Overload had just been out of his reach; Brainstorm's whole sensornet ached for it, his spark engorged in charge, his valve lips plump and swollen with need. He'd just overloaded from the wing rubs. Why was he still so damn horny? It was hard to stay still enough to wait for Spinister to finish binding his arms, his legs trembling with the effort, and when the mech finishes he fidgets, tugging against the rope.

His arms ache, but it's a dull ache. A good one. Something distracting from the maddening throb between his legs. As he's pushed down he vents heavily, temperature peaking at having Spin envelope him, and he bucks back against him.

"I..." Brainstorm's wings flutter with embarrassment, humiliated at how the thought makes his valve ache. A fresh trickle of lubricant drips from the rim and his spike jumps as Spinister's finger brushes over it. "It's just an overactive lubrication sensor."

He shudders. If he was in the city center, everyone would frag him. Maybe they'd take turns.

"Are you going to frag me or not?"

He feels like he'll explode if he doesn't overload soon.

"Getting fucked by everyone in public sure seems to activate that sensor, huh?" Spinister slides the hand on Brainstorm's back down to where his wrists were folded neatly over each other and tugs until the cables dug into the scientist's wing joints.

"What makes you think you deserve to be fragged by me?" he tuts, tugging just a little harder, cycling warm air against the back of Brainstorm neck. The medic draws a feather light line down from the tip of that twitching cord to its base and then over his external node. "Awful cocky of you."

He can feel his friend's thighs trembling against his and it draws a chassis deep rumble from his powerplant. Spin spreads the slick, swollen lips of the jet's valve apart sliding the length of his fingers against them in maddeningly slow strokes.

"Now ask nicely and I'll consider letting you right my fingers."

"Ow," Brainstorm whines as Spinister tugs the bindings tighter. It actually really aches and where it is digging into his joints hurts.

The way the heli is playing with him has him almost hysterical. He's never felt like this before. Pain didn't compare. He can't concentrate on anything but the maddening throb between his legs, how empty he feels, how much his spike aches from neglect. He feels so hot, and the way Spinister covers him and the light pressure of fingers spreading him open has him feeling-- What can he even compare it to? The frustration of looking forward to something, only to find it gone? Almost.

He'd do anything to feel those thick fingers stretch open his valve lining again. His vents are wide open, pumping out enough hot area the temperature in the room was beginning to steadily rise.

Unfortunately, he's still Brainstorm.

"I-I'm famous!" I mean, surely Spinister has heard of his genius before? Even to the Decepticons his work was well known. Much fewer were aware of his allegiances but he was still the most amazing weapon designer to have lived, and that was selling his talents short. Shouldn't Spin want to tap that?

"Isn't that enough?"

Brainstorm strains trying to wiggle enough to get those fingers inside him, grinding his aft against the huge purple surgeon looming over him.

Edited 2015-12-25 14:05 (UTC)

"If famousness was a criteria, I think I'd be dropping you like a bucket of hot lug nuts and going off to have fun with Optimus Prime instead." Still, the large hand on Brainstorm's wrists loosens its hold and the words were lined with warm amusement.

"You just need to say 'please'," Spinister whispers, leaning closer, scraping the edge of his mask over the back of Brainstorm's warm helm as the smaller flier writhes under him. He slips his hand over Brainstorm's side and cups his cockpit, finding the seams where glass met armor, easing their frames together, pressing close.

Scrap but the engineer running so, so hot.

"Say 'please'," he delicately pinches his friend's external node between two slick fingers, squeezing juuust on the border of pain before easing off and slipping just the bare tip of one digit into the inventor. "That's all you need to do and I'll give you another overload."

"Haha, funny," Brainstorm hisses. He didn't want to think about Spinister going off to bang Optimus. He's worked with Optimus. He knows about his amazing, raw magnitism.

Look, everyone is a little bit attracted to Optimus Prime.

He doesn't want to beg, but the scrape of fingers over his canopy and the jolt of pleasure as Spinister squeezes his node and teases the sensors right on the rim of his valve was too much. He whines, trying to flick his wings, but finding that it tugged the cabling too much.

Brainstorm huffs like a petulant youngling.

"Please."

He tries not to sound too desperate.

"Goood jet," Spinister praises and sinks his fingers into Brainstorm once against without a moment of hesitation. He immediately gets to work, lighting up any and every little bundle of sensors he finds, twisting his fingers in deeper and deeper.

"Very good jet." He closes he eyes when his fingers nudge against the terminus of Brainstorm's valve again and he concentrates, stroking and squirming his fingers against it, mapping out each individual node there. "That wasn't so bad, was it now?"

Not that he gives Brainstorm much of a chance to think about the answer for that. He's busy pressing he thumb to his partner's external node, slowly beginning to pump his fingers in and out of the sopping wet valve, spreading his fingers apart against the clench of the the jet's calipers.

"Haahhh!" Brainstorm moans as soon as those fingers fill him again. Yes! This was exactly what he needed.

The heat off Spinister's frame and the slow thrust of his fingers was maddening. The climb of his charge was slow even with his neediness, and so each brush over his nodes and stretch of his lining had him shivering beneath the heli.

He feels like he'll explode. There's something wrong with him-- the way the charge just balls up in his spark and between his legs and doesn't break. Brainstorm lifts his head, his optics so bright the yellow was almost white instead, and pants behind the mask. Rocking back against the fingers helped some, but it brought him to that uncomfortable edge.

His armor felt so sensitive, every scrape of Spinister's frame against his had him shuddering. It was almost painful.

"Please!" Now he can't get enough of that word. "Harder!"

"We'll train you up into an obedient little thing yet," Spin says with a low laugh, slipping a third finger in with a neat little twist of his hand, and then giving Brainstorm exactly what he asked for: harder and harder and harder.

He has to shift his grip to Brainstorm's shoulder halfway through to stop the smaller mech from sliding up and banging against the table. Lube was splatting over the thigh wedged between teal knees, forced out with each thrust and the pool was so big now that Spin has to watch and make sure he didn't slip.

"Look at you," he laughs again, slamming his fingers in deep and curling it hard against a bundle of sensors, shuddering at the sparks they gave off. "Give me a few weeks and I could just about fit my whole hand in there."

The fingers pounding in his valve make Brainstorm lose mose coherent thought. He couldn't even brain words, let alone focus on his surroundings. And boy, was he putty under Spinister's hands, falling limp against the table. Spinister's hand keeps him from sliding up the desk, but his hips are pressed hard against it. Paint scrapes off his armor as his hips bounce against Spinister's hand.

His venting pushed out hot steam as coolant burned out of his system, condensation building up around the vents and dripping off his armor. A full body tremble runs though him, his charge swelling. His spike's plating flares as it thickens with arousal, transfluid gathering in his tank, readying to burst. His hands claw at the air behind his back, and his thighs are soaked with his lubricant-- there's hardly as dry inch between his legs.

"I'm--!" he cries, then buries his face against his desk.

Brainstorm's valve squeezes down on Spinister's fingers suddenly, then ripples with rhythmic pulses as he comes. If it was a spike, it would probably be pulled deeper into him, milking it, but instead his calipers cling to Spinister's fingers and squeeze them. His spike bursts, sending large spurts of transfluid jetting out, splattering on the ground, and charge practically bursts from his optics as it ripples over his frame.

Brainstorm hits his climax and the hard ripple of his valve makes Spinister utter a breathy sigh as he keeps pumping his sensitized fingers against the tight squeeze, doing his best to prolong the jet's orgasm. His own pelvic armor was tight and static hums over his armor, but it was a good kind of discomfort and easily ignored in favor of his friend's pleasure.

The hand on Brainstorm's shoulder slides over to stroke gently over a wing as he slows down. Residual charge pops over the points of contact and Spin's optics dim in a quiet pleasure, watching as the weapon's engineer trembles against the table top.

"You okay there?" he murmurs, slowly, lazily swirling the tips of his digits against Brainstorm's ceiling nodes, mimicking the feel of cum being pumped against them.

Residual charge pops over Brainstorm's armor as Spinister strokes over his wing, but it's not as smoldering and urgent as it had been. He's scorching to touch and condensation was dripping from his overworked vents, dribbling down his plating in thin rivulets. He feels like he might melt into his table, but in a good sort of way.

His expression is a bit blissed out when Spinister asks his question, and Brainstorm responds with a croak of static and a sigh, his legs a little wobbly. His valve still lazily clenches at the fingers in him, the calipers massaging their length like a cord as they rub over his ceiling nodes.

"M-more coolant," he manages after a moment.

That wouldn't hurt at least, but he also doesn't want Spinister to move away or stop what he's doing. He's at that point where the charge wasn't so intense, and the pleasure tingling through his struts and in his valve could really be appreciated.

Well, since Spinister wasn't about to grow super long arms all of a sudden, stopping and moving away was just an unfortunate fact of life.

"Stay put," he says as he withdraws his fingers with a slick noise, thick strands of lube trailing from his fingertips. He gives Brainstorm's wing a final, comforting pet before moving back and going to search for the bottle of coolant he'd found before.

"I'll get you some energon too while I'm over here, how about?"

Without Spinister to keep him steady, Brainstorm's legs wobble and tremble, sapped of strength. A thick glob of lubricant makes its way from his valve down his leg, adding to the sticky mess his plating has become, and it would be vaguely uncomfortable if it wasn't for the fact he was fighting to keep standing.

"Okay!" he manages, though his voice is laced heavily with static, still popping slightly.

As he slides back away from the table, he had to throw his weight forward and flop to make sure he doesn't clunk back on his aft.

"Probably should've untied you before I left, huh?"

Spin sets the energon cube and coolant down before curling a hand around Brainstorm's waist and pushing him back up over the desk. He undoes one of the knots then, and the cable eases loose.

"We'll start on the toys after this," the surgeon continues and there's definitely a smile in that voice, although he was doing his best to suppress it. "Do you want to be tied up for that or do you want your hands free?"

Goodness, coolant and energon set in front of him practically makes his tank rattle with sudden hunger. Evaporated coolant freely drips from his vents, and he puffs a cloud of steam from the slits in his much as Spinister loosens the rope. He's hesitant to move his arms for a moment, joints aching from the strain, but after a moment he wiggles his wrists to loosen it more.

"I thought you tied me up for that?"

That wasn't a yes or a no. He wasn't turned on by being tied up and pushed around. No not at all.

Brainstorm moves his hands, the rope still dangling from his arms as he opens up the fuel intake in his wrist and pushes in the funnel. It's not the most satisfying to take his fuel, but it is one of the quickest. Almost as soon as he starts pouring the energon in light buzz runs through his frame and his wings are allowed to droop.

"I did," Spin concedes as he inspects Brainstorm's wing joints for any potential damage. "But do you want to be tied up for it still?"

Sorry Brainstorm, the guy is just not a fan of playing guessing games in this particular department. In fact, he just straight up hates guessing games and has possibly shot his teammates when they'd tried it on him.

On several occasions.

Because Misfire is apparently has a deathwish.

[ OPEN ]

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