robothell | [ OPEN ]

"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.

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