The burst of white hot fluids down his intake draws another chest deep moan from Spinister and he holds onto Brainstorm tight as his friend seizes in overload. The taste of it was euphoric; sweet, thick and hot and he eagerly swallows each load, stroking Brainstorm's spasming valve walls in time, until the mech goes limp in his arms.

Slowly, he eases Brainstorm's shaking thighs from his shoulders, drawing his helm back and letting the slowly depressurizing cord slip free, his facemask sliding closed with a quiet click. The only trace of what'd happened was a little droplet of fluid sliding off his chin.

"That was hot," Spinister purrs, gently turning the smaller flier so that he lay on his front. He leans down and presses his face against one of Brainstorm's wings, scraping the edge of his mask up the leading edge, greedily running his hands over Brainstorm's prone frame.