robothell | (no subject)

"I didn't make it for me," he huffs.

Brainstorm wraps his hand around the lid of the jar and pulls it towards him, tugging it out of Spinister's hands.

"I could probably find a use for it. There are more out there?"

"They pop out of the ground by the hundreds when we hit a dark cycle." Spinister relinquishes his hold on the jar easily enough, watching Brainstorm examine the specimen.

"I can pick more if you want? Tarn'll notice if I bring armfuls of them over, but I can hide some jars just fine from him."

"More's better."

One little specimen would be enough to study but for practical use, one probably wasn't enough. Brainstorm was already considering the possibility of flamethrowers and firebombs.

He goes and squirrels the jar away before returning to fishing out the canisters, dragging them over to complete the trade.

"You're so worried about Tarn noticing. Where does he think you're going?"

"Where else?" Spinister huffs, accepting the canisters and tucking them away next to the shower so that he could fill them before he left. He still had some time.

"I'm a Scavenger. I scavenge." Despite the tiredness in his tone, there's still a good amount of pride. "The fragger knows we need a lot of stuff to make that scrap pile of campsite some place liveable."

That's a point. Brainstorm thought for a moment Spinister told Tarn he was going somewhere specific though. Truthfully, he's pretty glad that the scavenger was taking precautions. Best not to draw attention to his workshop.

"What's he even do all day?" Brainstorm can't imagine Tarn actually being useful for any sort of chores. His experience with high ranking mechs that actually did any grunt work was lacking.

Still, as he puts the jar down in his workspace, he takes the moment to pick up the bow again, turn around, and fire off a dart before Spinister has the chance to protest again.

"Well, his knee's still messed up from ticking off the baby Megatron so he kind of limps around and angsts about how he doesn't get to bang Sixshot any- OY!"

Spinister's indignant yelp precedes some crashing and banging as he reflexively jumps at the strange not-pain of the dart hitting his chest and topples over a work bench.

"YOU!" he growls, leveling the most deathly glower on the smaller flier, armor plates flaring. "ARE IN SO MUCHNNNGh...!"

Hot.

It felt like a supernova had gone off in his spark chamber and Spinister's back arches into an almost impossible curve, hands denting the edge of the table.

Brainstorm, being the coward he is, ducks and covers as soon as Spinister's voice took that murderous tone. He watches the heli from beneath the table, cautiously observing his flailing and arching.

That's different.

Maybe bad different?

Brainstorm becomes suddenly anxious that he's accidentally killed Spinister. He certainly doesn't want his first -- and only -- kill to be one from some stupid miscalculations. That worry isn't enough to draw him out from under the table though. Nope, he has enough sense to keep hiding.

"It's okay, Spin! What are you feeling?" he calls out, peeking out around the table siding.

Spinister is going find something throw at Brainstorm just as soon as he can get his limbs coordinated enough for it. He just- he just needed a few seconds.

"What-" he croaks, sliding to the floor, onto his knees, his vents frantically cycling cool air into his systems. "What'd you do?"

The heat lances down his spinal strut and tightens in a hard coil behind his interface panel, drawing a breathy gasp from the heli.

From under the table Brainstorm couldn't quite tell what was going on with Spinister. He could hear the sound of his vents, but that could mean anything. Either way, the bow did something but determining what that something was was still up in the air.

"If I told you what the bow does that would be cheating!"

Better not to put any ideas into Spin's head and such.

"What are your symptoms?"

"I. Am going to kick." There's a pause because Spin's struggling to cool down. "Your scrawny little aft!"

Easier said than done right now. It felt like his armor was too tight. It felt like everything was on fire. It felt like someone'd injected liquid golden pleasure into his fuel lines and it was making holding onto his anger harder and harder.

His armor was steaming hot, evaporating the last traces of cleanser from the shower. It's pure luck that he spots a flash of teal under one of the tables out of the corner of an optic- and then sheer willpower that drags him to his knees and onto his feet.

"C'mere!" he snarls, staggering towards to the table, reaching out to flip it right the hell over.

That's terrifying.

Brainstorm realizes he overestimated Spinister's friendliness about two seconds before the table gets flipped away and his cover vanishes. Luckily, he has about four million years of practice at running away, so even as the table crashes down he gets on his hands and knees to scurry away.

And that's when he realizes the jar had shattered, and his table was now on fire.

"Oh. Pit."

He flops onto his back to face Spinister, crab walking away.

"The fire control system is gonna go off! Truce? Truce!!"

Brainstorm sure was awful slippery for a jet. That or Spinister's reaction time was considerably slower than usual, which is why he doesn't really process anything the guy shouts at him as he turns after the escaping afthead.

He manages two steps before his knees give out again. The heli's hand darts out as he falls, grabbing at Brainstorm's leg to try and drag the squirming fragger back towards him so that he could-

So that-

Those were awful tasty looking legs.

He is so dead.

Brainstorm squeals when Spinister's hand clamps over his leg and throws his arms up to protect his face from a pummeling. No no no! How was he even going to explain to Ratchet why he had the slag beaten out of him.

Smoke slowly fills the lab, but when the punch never comes, Brainstorm parts his arms slightly to peer between them at the mech, his optics wide and worried-- for his own safety. Spinister was okay and all but his own life was more important. He tugs his leg hesitantly.

Right about then, the sprinkler system comes on, showering his work, the fire, and both of them in cool water. Brainstorm groans.

The cool water makes Spin gasp the moment it hits his too-hot plating bringing with it a few seconds of precious clarity. Seconds that he uses to level some more glaring at Brainstorm, but at least it was a calculating glare and not a murderous one.

He reels Brainstorm in and boots his heli engine up so fast and so hard that it screeches as it winds up, sending ground-quaking thrums through the entire lab.

"You're an aft," Spin hisses, pressing the jet's fauld armor flat against his chest- right up against the source of all the strut shaking vibrations.

His lab was going to be ruined from all the water. It was going to be hell to clean up all the puddles and check to make sure the equipment was still working. (Most would, since he designed many to be water resistant. After years of combat on swamp planet he's learned that feature was one that can't be gone without.) The table was at least gone. He was going to have to get a new one.

Brainstorm's in the middle of his panicked assessment as Spinister drags him over. He flails, trying to grip the floor without revealing too much of his face, which ended up with a very squirmy jet trying to press his face into a shoulder.

"Ah--" The vibrations against his chassis were almost too strong. His plating felt sensitive almost right away, tingling from the rumble against it. Slowly he turns his head to look at Spinister with one eye.

"It worked?" He's not sure. Spin sure was starting to seem less like dying and more like humping.

"Hahhh," Holy Stars but the press of another warm body against his was divine beyond description right about now.

"You are such a huge aft," he says instead of answering because he doesn't know what the hell that stupid bow was supposed to do in the first place.

His pelvic plates split without his conscious input, thick spike jutting free and rock hard already, lube slowly dripping down his thighs and- his chest armor splits too, letting through just a small gleam of light. Spin was too long gone to care though, wrapping his hands under the inventor's ass and raising it up so that he could press his mask against the jet's teal crotch.

It's not the first time someone's called him an aft and he probably deserved it. Yes, he was well aware.

He has his question answered fairly quickly though; the snick of a interface panel open and a spike pressurizing was fairly distinct. Brainstorm lowers his arm, squirming as he steals a glance at the thick organ. The spark light distracts him from it, his optics widening a little.

"Spin--" He doesn't finish the name, his voice cracking as the mech presses his mask to his hatch. This was going far quicker than he expected. He's not sure how that pollen had worked for other people, but the gun was...

Effective, to say the least.

Brainstorm clutches at the heli's head, his frame flushing with heat despite the cool water still pattering over his armor and cockpit. Bashfulness-- He was still pretty inexperienced with a partner in the berth.

"Are you sure?" Maybe he should have thought this through. Gotten toys ready.

"You-" Spin doesn't even have it in him to be angry right now, so he mostly just sounds incredibly exasperated. "You're really going to ask that now?"

You know, AFTER shooting your turbo test rat with the stupid sex bow? Okay, wow, he does not have the processing power to deal with this confusing scrap right now.

"Open up," he growls, slipping two fingers up between Brainstorm's thighs and working them along the seams of his friend's armor. He presses his face plate right above where the inventor's spike should be hiding and hums a low, deep note.

"I m-mean I can get some--" Brainstorm starts to stutter, but apparently Spinister doesn't give slag about other methods of taking care of the charge.

"Hhhnnh," he moans, arching into the heli's hands as they stroke along the seams. He sort of wishes that he'd had some engex before hand, or maybe even shot himself; anything to help with being nervous. Spinister had given him quite a fright before.

It's the humming that really does it though. His covers fold open, revealing his array. His cord doesn't spring to attention like Spinister's had, but it slips out, slowly hardening from the attention.

Oh, he might have considered other methods of dispelling the charge if it'd been presented before the effects took hold, but Brainstorm was kind of here and stupidly hot right now. It's a bit of an obvious choice as far as Spin's charge laden brain module was concerned.

The covers pop open and Spin puts his skilled fingers to use, stroking the outer rim of Brainstorm's valve, rolling the mech's external node between his fingertips. He nuzzles the length of the jet's cord before letting his mask split and he angles his head until the head of spike catches the opening of his fuel intake-

Then Spinister's free hand is pulling Brainstorm's hips up by his aft and the entirety of the jet's cord disappears down his throat in one smooth motion.

Primus Almighty, Spinister works fast. Brainstorm presses a hand over his mask, but it doesn't do much to muffle the sounds he grunts and whimpers out as the mech takes his node between his fingers. He wasn't aroused when he shot Spin, but heat was lacing through his circuits now as charge began to build, making his node and spike stiffen a bit more.

"Spin--!" he gasps, arching up as his spike disappears down the heli's intake, but he had no more room to thrust up. He was already fully inside, the warm squeeze of the throat rippling around his quickly hardening cord. His other hand stays on the mech's head, holding it as his spike twitches inside Spinister's intake and he tries pushing him slightly to see better.

Even without pollen to help him along, he was a messy mech. As he grows hotter and his spark pulses a bit quicker, a steady trickle of lubricant starts to dribble from the mouth of his valve. It mingles with the wetness on the floor, but then the sprinkler finally shuts off, leaving both of them and everything in the lab rather soaked.

Spin barely notices the sprinklers stopping. His world had narrowed down to the hot, squirming, warm wetness of Brainstorm's body, the solid heat of a spike down his intake.

And, hmm, his name sounded pretty good when the aftheaded jet gasps it out like that.

The heli swallows, constricting his intake around Brainstorm's cord and starts bobbing his head up and down, optics dim in concentration and pleasure. The feel of it swelling up to full hardness, the taste of pre-lube, good Primus it was bliss.

He's only partially drawn out of it by the feel of lube dripping down his wrist and he shifts Brainstorm's legs up so that they were properly hooked over his shoulders. Then he pushes the two fingers into the slick heat of his friend's valve with in a slow but merciless thrust. There was no teasing and easing into things this time.

This was a far different situation than the one that occurred during the pollen outbreak. For one, Brainstorm's not in restraints, but he's still at loss at what to do with his hands. For another, Spinister was practically wild this time. He had an unshakable cloak of control before, but Brainstorm didn't get any reprieve to beg or whine.

With his legs draped over the heli's shoulders, it belt his spine at a weird angle, but it wasn't uncomfortable. He secures himself by crossing his ankles behind Spinister's back, keeping him from sliding as he squirms and shivers.

"Oh-- Slag," he gasps, blunt fingers digging into the crest of Spinister's helm.

His calipers cycle down tight around the fingers thrusting into him, putting the nodes along his lining in contact with each squirming digit. Brainstorm's vents open and his fans begin to whir audibly, but it doesn't cover the wet squish as his valve fills with lubricant, making him more than wet enough for the fingers to thrust easily.

He squints his eyes shut, feeling his spike hit the back of Spinister's throat with each downstroke, the tight squeeze around his swelling cord, and his other hand joins the other on Spinister's helm, pressing him down onto his array.

The hands on his crest drew a low groan from the heli-former, the sound vibrating around the cord in his throat as the warm hands trigger various sensors hidden under the metal there.

He rewards the touch, pushing his fingers in deeper and deeper against the trembling squeeze of Brainstorm's calipers until he felt his fingtertips push up against the blazing nodes at the very end of the jet's valve. And then he keeps the pressure on it and pushes in even deeper until his knuckles slid against the lip of the smaller flier's valve, palm pressing Brainstorm's external node in rolling, grinding thrusts.

Spin starts humming around his friend's spike now too, sliding the length in and out of his intake in time with each grind of his palm, pausing now and again to swallow, heli engines purring a basso note.

Brainstorm didn't really have others to compare it to, but fuck all those mechs that said that lips are needed to give a good blowjob. He's used a few toys with his spike before and it didn't compare to wet, soft heat squeezing around him, practically milking the lubricant out from the tip.

He didn't have too much stamina for this kind of stimulation. Already he could feel the pressure building at the base of his cord. Some early transfluid already begins to leak from the tip, dripping down Spinister's thought.

"Spin, I'm--" he chokes out, but his words cut off with another gasp and jerk of his hips, bucking against the hand grinding against his exterior node.

The heli's fingers were thick -- not quite the size of a toy -- but enough to stretch a little and give his valve something to clench against. The rubbing against his ceiling node builds charge, balling at the pit of his stomach and behind his spike, and the lubricant runs in thick dribbles over Spinister's knuckles and down his thighs.

"Close!"