robothell | (no subject)

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!"

Slowly, Spinister pulls back until just the tip of Brainstorm cord was pressed into his intake and he takes a moment to rub the smooth head against his mask, enjoying the slick texture.

"Mmmm," he cycles a low sigh, watching Brainstorm buck onto his fingers, shifting his grip from the flier's aft up to his waist. The sight sends a hot pulse up his own spike, hips twitching in sympathetic pleasure.

"Come on, Brainstorm," he rumbles, dipping his helm back down. "Cum for me. I wanna hear you scream."

Spinister swallows the inventor's cord deep in one smooth motion, moaning as it hits the back of his intake. He tightens his hand around his friend's waist to hold him in place as he start driving his fingers into the jet's valve, harder and harder in fierce, unrelenting thrusts, lube splattering onto the wet floor in thick globs.

Twenty minutes ago, he was fairly certain that he was going to be popping out some dents. Now Brainstorm can hardly think about why he'd been so anxious. Spinister was... intensely hot. He thought maybe it had just been the pollen doing it before, but he was completely sober right now and--

The sight of Spinister's intake around him, stretched to swallow down his cord was a sinfully good. Primus. He'll have to reevaluate this new bad taste later.

"Ahh," he rumbles, his jet engine revving. "Spin."

Whatever water that hasn't dripped off his frame was starting to evaporate from the building heat of his frame, leaving him mostly dry except for the the drip of lubricant on the floor near Spinister's knees. He didn't need to really ask again; the pounding against the back of his valve makes his hips jerk helplessly and his spike throb in Spinister's intake.

"Spin!" It's almost a warning as his armor rattles and his thighs go tight on the heli's shoulders.

Brainstorm's frame tenses up as the charge builds then crests, overload hitting him fast. His calipers clamp down around the mech's fingers, squeezing tight, and the slide of them over crackling nodes makes light stream from the scientist's optics. His spike swells just slightly before it bursts a thick pulse of fluid down Spinister's throat, and Brainstorm twitches with each new pulse until he's wrung out.

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.

As the last ebbs of overload leave him -- literally -- Brainstorm's pretty much strutless and limp against Spinister's body. His engine hums with pleasure and he opens his optics again, looking at that stray bit of fluid on the mech's mask, and it purrs a little louder.

"Thanks."

His spike wants to retract back into its housing as it depressurizes, but he overrides the command, letting it flop limply against his hip as he rolls over. Brainstorm stretches out like a turbofox who found a heat pocket in the ground, one arm cushioning his face while the other sprawls above his head. The scrape of the mask over his wing makes him groan quietly, channeling the urge to flick it into a stretch.

"My workshop is ruined," he sighs, but the hands roaming over his frame keep him from getting too grumpy about it yet. He curls into the touches, his armor plating fluffing slightly to let the large fingers beneath the seams.

"I told you not to shoot me," Spin murmurs a matter-of-factly against Brainstorm's wingtip, letting himself be tempted into sliding his fingers under the folds of the jet's armor.

There were a lot of delicious little sensors and circuitry exposed and he could get lost just trying to find them all-- if only his interface drive wasn't pinging him hard enough to ache. With a shaky sigh, Spin plants one last nuzzle against the base of Brainstorm's wing before drawing back, his hands following the planes of his friend's sides and coming to a rest on the inventor's hips with a firm squeeze.

"You know, sometimes," his tone is conversational as he spreads Brainstorm's legs apart with his knees. "Sometimes, I like fucking my partners with my fingers until they cum and then making them take me juuuuusst as they're peaking."

The arrhythmical squeeze of an overloading port and his partners writhing in overstimulation was a sight that never got old. He shudders at the memory of it, sliding his thumbs together over the slick folds of Brainstorm's own valve, gently spreading them.

"But I also like this." Spin's voice hitches just a tad when he arches slightly, sliding the underside of his achingly hot cord against that deliciously wet warmth. "Niiice and mmmm...."

It's all the teasing he could endure right then and there. He pins the rim of Brainstorm's valve apart, angling his hips until the blunt tip of his cord slid into space between his thumbs. Then the heli was bracing his weight on one knee, leaning over Brainstorm's body and slowly, slowing pushing in and in and in.

Spinister did tell him, but when the heli was the ultimate challenge, it was far too hard to resist testing on him. The results were... better than expected, save for the mess of his lab. He'll be spending days cleaning it. For now, he was enjoying the strong of fingers over his wiring, coaxing him into wiggling back against the heli.

"Frag, Spinister," Brainstorm grunts imagining those talented fingers inside him again. He's more than willing to move with the nudging, but he keeps his shoulders down, his face against his forarm as the folds of his valve are spread.

All that talk has him dripping and the hot slide of the cord against his external sensors has him shivering. It's not like a toy. A toy was never that warm, didn't twitch and swell as the head pops past the rim of his valve. Brainstorm gasps, his lining squeezing around the thick spike as it sinks into him, spreading him over and filling him up.

"H-Huge." He's had big toys, thankfully. His port is used to being spread and as the cord pushes in deeper, lubricant is forced out around it, dripping in thick globs. The jet slowly moves his knees, propping up his aft just a bit more to rock into the slide, groaning as each ridge catches around the nodes inside him.

"Tell me if it gets uncomfortable," Spinister bites out, voice strained and optics narrowed into thin slits as he tries to concentrate past the tight squeeze around his cord. Brainstorm was warm. So, so warm, and he can feel little zips of electricity from the jet's nodes as he pushes in deeper and he can feel the pleasure start coiling under his spark chamber...

Ah, that was still open wasn't it? He stares at the thin line of light in his chest plate in sudden, blank realization. Huh. His eyes slide back down to the lovely expanse of Brainstorm's back, down to where their bodies were joined, the obscene stretch of the jet's valve around the swell of his spike.

"Fragging heck," Spinister breathes, shutting his optics off and forcing himself to stop when he feels the blunt head of his cord nudge into Brainstorm's ceiling nodes with a good few inches still to go.

Truthfully, Brainstorm has imagined that fragging would be much more romantic than being face down on the wet floor of his lab with his aft getting filled by a mech who enjoyed describing the scenario in detail. He now knows he was a complete fragging idiot, because he felt amazing.

The stretch of his port burned a little, the lining slowly easing open, but it was a dull burn that ebbed away the longer Spinister stayed inside. His calipers cycle and adjust, finding the right squeeze around the spike inside him, and then they twitch with almost each pulse of the scientist's spark.

"Haaah," he grunts, keeping his head down, and he cycles a few times to keep his frame relaxed. If he tensed up, it might feel fine for Spinister, but it wouldn't be a great time for him.

"Are you... Are you all the way in?" Spinister had stopped. He can feel the head rubbing against his ceiling node, making little zaps of electricity course through his pelvic span. He couldn't feel the mech's baseplate against his aft though. There's... no possible way he could be that big, could he?

Brainstorm gives an experimental rock, pushing back, and it immediately draws out a staticy moan from his vocalizer as the head of the spike pushes up against the terminus of his valve harder. The opening of his port gives a weak squeeze around the girth, stretched wide open.

"No I'm nnnmmm," Spinister's engine rumbles when Brainstorm rocks onto him. Okay, okay, alright, this was getting a bit much, holy hell.

He leans over Brainstorm with a low gasp, cupping the jet's canopy and easing their frames together until the only gap left was the space between the inventors aft and his pelvic armor. Bracing his weight on his elbows and knees, he presses his crest against the back of his friend's shoulders, venting harshly.

"Just- easy." Stroking his hand up Brainstorm's thigh, Spin draws his fingers through the streaks of lube there, his fans spinning harshly. It's only then that he finally lets himself very, very gently rock back, optics squinting at the sensations.

The intense pressure from the last two inches few was like having the head pop in times ten. Brainstorm keeps still, knees locked to help support the weight of Spinister curled over his back, vents in short huffs as the blunt head pushes into the end of his valve until it starts to stretch again, inner components shifting to make room.

It made a weird fluttery sensation in his gut and the jet makes small sounds to accompany it, condensation building against his armor. It was sort of ticklish; his abdominal armor twitches as everything shifts, his valve rippling weakly around the huge girth. Finally, Spinister bottoms out.

"Uh...huh." He doesn't even need to suggest to take it easy. Too sharp of a movement might bruise or crimp some cabling inside. Nothing life threatening, but he'd be sore. Probably will be anyway.

"Hhhnn," he groans as the length starts to slide out, the ridges catching over his nodes, making his valve ripple with the friction and building charge. His spike was half pressurized again, coaxed back to attention by the pressure and build of charge. Good thing he hadn't retracted it-- he'd need the room.

The backwards movement draws more lubricant from his valve. Spinister's cord is slick and wet with it, and the slow withdrawal causes some thick drops to roll down it to the baseplate. Brainstorm is plenty slick, keeping his lining from catching, but he's still tight enough the rim is stretched taut. Brainstorm arches his back, pressing his canopy into the hand cupping it, and curls his fingers into the floor.