Shuddering hard enough to make his rotors rattle in their housing, Spinister makes a pitched, strained noise as Brainstorm's valve milks the last ebbs of transfluid from him, spark flickering and sending electric fizzles over his armor. Slowly, so slowly, he starts coming down from the sex high, tensing now and again as aftershocks run through him, feeling vaguely like all of his joints had been replaced with jelly.

He lets go of Brainstorm's spike, gently brushing a drop of fluids off of the tip. Then he gingerly peels his fingers free from the dent on Brainstorm's thigh, smoothing the bumps over and quietly assessing the damage. It was entirely superficial, but the plate would need to be taken off and hammered smooth instead of just using a dent popper on it.

Venting a shaky sigh, Spinister lets his chest plates fold closed once more before scooping Brainstorm up by his shoulders and sitting up so that the jet was on his lap, comfortably tucked against his front. He was careful not to jar the connection, but the shift of the inventor's valve around him still sent a tight pulse of pleasure up his guts, fluids shifting around.

Primus.

It'd be a little bit before the ridges on his spike flattened back down. It's a little bit that Spin uses to vengefully flick one of Brainstorm's stupid headfins.

"Not smart," the heli rasps.