#brainstorm x reader

• Fans cycling on as he rumbles, you’d stuck your tongue inside his mouth through the gaps at the sides. Like the way his mouth opens and closes doesn’t bother you at all when it sometimes makes other Cybertronians uncomfortable. And your eyes are wicked with mischief as he rolls you under him and you laugh. “You little brat,” he growls, trying to not laugh himself even as he’s embarrassed. Had overloaded before even getting started. Hips pumping, you gasp and squirm.

• You could swear he’d just overloaded, had felt it, but he’s still going like he didn’t. Had wondered if his mouth was sensitive since he hides it behind his battle mask almost all the time and you’re guessing the answer is yes. That or he’s embarrassed about it. You’d noticed that a few of the aliens with odd features tend to hide them, so you guess Cybertronians can be just as judgy as humans about people being different. You like his mouth, though. Like him. Even the massive ego. Hooking a leg against his hip as he moves against you in deep drives, you’re winding up. Getting close.

• Maybe it really doesn’t matter to you. Pretends it doesn’t matter to him. Says it doesn’t, but still wears the battle mask rather than dealing with others staring. There’s nothing wrong with him. Hates that sometimes he feels like there is. Little fingers cling to his chassis as you gasp and squirm, getting louder. Trembling under him and he can’t deny he likes the way you look right now, head tossed back and lips parted. Moaning his name. And you come apart with a cry, fisting his spike.

• Back bowing as you shatter, his hips snap against you, dragging it out as you tremble before he groans, shuddering against you. Heart racing as you raggedly breathe, you feel him shift over you. And you reach up, finger touching his bottom lip and following the line of his mouth up and over as he watches you. “Hi,” you whisper awkwardly unable to tease as he just stares before his head turns and he presses his mouth against the inside of your wrist. Have no idea what to say, if this changed everything between you both or if it was only a one time thing.

Brainstorm was, without a doubt, a multifaceted mech. Calm and thoughtful by nature, he displayed enviable patience and always maintained a rational attitude. His every action was executed with precision, every thought followed a well-defined method, and his approach to work was rigorous. This was the ideal picture that described him: not only a brilliant scientist aboard the Lost Light, but also a reliable ally in scientific explorations alongside Perceptor.

He was known for his reliability, both in the lab and outside: when there was an experiment to be carried out or a technical problem to be solved, Brainstorm was among the few bots one could truly turn to.

It was therefore not surprising that he had been chosen to temporarily serve as fourth-in-command. That moment—still deeply etched in his processor—he still remembered in minute detail. And it was precisely after that event that, for the first time, he found himself a pillar of support alongside their beloved Captain Rodimus.

It was a sudden recognition, but fully deserved: not only for his intelligence or technical expertise, but also for his emotional serenity and composure, qualities that allowed him to make decisive decisions with firmness.

Or at least, that seemed to be the reason for his choice.

Rodimus could certainly have chosen someone else. There were higher-ranking mechs, experts in command tactics, or seasoned war veterans. Yet, when Brainstorm saw the captain rush into the laboratory, visibly agitated as if an attack were imminent (which wouldn't have surprised him much), he immediately knew something serious was about to happen. But strangely, there was no emergency. No alarm. No explosion.

Instead, Rodimus knelt slowly before him, his servos clasped in solemn prayer, almost with the devotion reserved for a Cybertron deity. Then, in a voice filled with gravity and hope, he made his request: to temporarily accept the role of fourth-in-command.

Many had already declined the task, considering it an inconvenient burden for such a short time. Too much responsibility for such a fleeting assignment. Yet Rodimus still believed, or perhaps stubbornly hoped, that he would say yes.

And who knows what had driven him that day to make such an unusual choice. Perhaps it was a feeling of compassion, that rare spark he rarely allowed to surface, that momentarily filled the void in his usual reasoning. Watching Rodimus so overwhelmed, tense as if he were holding the weight of an entire planet, had struck a chord in him, the ones he always tried to keep hidden.

With a barely audible sigh, mixed with resignation and an inexplicable sweetness, Brainstorm moved his servos. He raised them, placing them with an almost unnatural delicacy on his metallic forehead. His impeccable precision, always the fruit of his perfectionist nature, took over as he worked to soothe the discomfort Rodimus had brought with it: the typical mental overload, inevitable proof of what his fateful decision would lead to.

And then came that crucial moment.

He nodded.

He said yes.

It had been a reluctant yes, burning in his intake and processor, but it brooked no misunderstanding: it was a clear, definitive acceptance. And as soon as the word left his dermas, something he had fully expected happened. The ship seemed to respond like a living organism. Rodimus's energy shifted instantly, illuminating every corner of their metallic world with a joy so genuine it seemed tangible. Even the darkest corners of the hull seemed to vibrate with a new light, as if even Cybertron, light-years away, had found solace.

And Brainstorm? While all this was happening around him, he could already feel the wave of regret rising within him. Every fiber of his being confessed what he didn't want to admit: he shouldn't have said yes.

Yet he had.

And now there was no turning back.

And there he was: busy maintaining control of the ship while Rodimus and his entourage descended on an unknown planet for an unexpected "resupply."

It wasn't necessary at all—they'd done it six cycles ago, and the Lost Light's warehouses were already full of supplies. It was a terrible cover, so transparent that even a mech fresh from the assembly cube would have spotted it in two clicks.

Rodimus hadn't gone to resupply with energon or technical parts... no. He looked like he was fleeing, as if Primus himself were waiting for him on that dusty planet, his cheeky smile and the twinkle in his optics that meant only one thing: adventure, danger... and zero responsibility.

And Brainstorm? He stayed on the ship to handle emergencies of his own making, because someone had to. A small sigh escaped the soft derma beneath the metal mask—an almost imperceptible sound, like the whoosh of a system relieving pressure. Brainstorm never complained out loud, but right now he was alone.

Sitting in the control room, he held the data pad in his servos. Nothing urgent: just minor research—data for Perceptor to analyze later. Tests on unstable energy crystals, calculations to improve the auxiliary engines—nothing that required immediate attention. But they absolutely had to be completed. Because if he didn't do it now... who else would? Certainly not Rodimus.

And Perceptor was counting on this information for his experiments the next day. So he continued typing, patiently... while the silence of deep space reigned outside the ship.

He was so immersed in his research that he didn't hear the footsteps in the main corridor. He didn't notice the metallic echo of feet on the deck plates or the faint echo of voices. Rodimus was back—you could tell by the lively chatter, by that exuberant tone that only he could have: loud, animated, almost shouted, as if each sentence were a planetary announcement.

But beside his tone of vocalizer, there was another equally unfamiliar vocalizer, utterly alien.

You weren't a member of the Lost Light. Not someone Brainstorm had filed in his personal databases, nor a resignation that had ever surfaced in any reports. As Rodimus laughed and talked nonstop (probably improvising to hide some detail), that unfamiliar vocalizer responded: Calm? Curious? Maybe even hostile? Brainstorm couldn't say for sure, because his optics were glued to the datapad, immersed in his orderly, methodical world.

Rodimus and the mysterious individual entered the captain's main lounge. The doors opened with a familiar pneumatic hiss, letting in the sounds of their arrival: laughter, hurried footsteps, Rodimus's visibly enthusiastic tone as he introduced the stranger as if he were a recently won prize. But Brainstorm? No reaction.

He remained still. No sign, no sign of interest. he was still bent over her trusty datapad, focused on a series of data that undermined all her previous calculations: unstable energy samples? Nuclear reactions outside the expected parameters? Something was profoundly anomalous, and every sliver of his attention was absorbed in trying to solve this seemingly irreconcilable technical problem.

The others' vocalizer's became a faint buzz on his audials, a metallic background noise that couldn't shake him from his state of total concentration... until something forced him to break his trance. An unexpected pressure settled on his pauldron: a servo, positioned with an almost unsettling familiarity, that would have startled anyone. But not Brainstorm. Even immersed in his "science loop," he barely managed to suppress an instinctive flinch, and the data pad almost slipped from his grasp.

Almost.

He managed, if only barely, to maintain some semblance of composure. Only just. Rodimus called his designation, "Brainstorm?", with the usual note of concern tempered by his trademark indulgent smile. When he noticed something strange or out of place, he wore it like second nature. Brainstorm's response was icy: a fleeting glance, quick and well-calibrated like a directed laser beam. A clear warning.

But Rodimus ignored it, wisely refraining from pressing him—he knew the risks of pushing him too hard. Still, he didn't give up entirely: with those quick but strangely thoughtful gestures, he continued to tap the servo on the joints of his shoulder, eventually managing to gently turn it in a new direction.

That's when Brainstorm saw you.

With Rodimus's touch still firm on his back—a warm, familiar pressure that contrasted with his newly accumulated irritation—Brainstorm found himself pushed forward, almost compelled to move toward that unfamiliar figure.

As you gazed at everything with rapt optics, as if studying some sort of crystallized magic, every detail seemed to enchant you: the illuminated walls of the main corridor, the glowing technical panels on the ceiling... even the cyberglyph writings etched on the doors captured your attention, as if part of some arcane, magnetic language. Then, with a slight clearing of the intake from Rodimus, you slowly returned your (O/C) optics to him and Brainstorm, waiting for one of them to speak.

He, of course, wasted no time. With that smile only Rodimus could display—wide, naive, almost childlike in its infectious joy, as if he'd just earned the title of savior of the universe—he dramatically raised a servo to introduce the LL scientist to you.

"(D/n)! Meet Brainstorm! The most brilliant... and also the most annoying scientist in all of the Lost Light!" he exclaimed in a ringing vocalizer, brimming with his usual exuberance.

The last part of his announcement? Yes, it was clearly an affectionate tease—to be honest, perhaps even a little vindictive—but it was delivered in a cheerful, uninhibited tone. Rodimus laughed as he spoke, letting everyone know the comment was just a little teasing between comrades.

Brainstorm, on the other hand, didn't seem the least bit perturbed by the adjective "annoying"—he was too accustomed to hearing that term from much of the crew. However, his optics didn't move even a micron. They remained fixed on you. Silently.

He studied you meticulously. Every detail of yours was the focus of his analysis: the design of your faceplate, the structure of your joints, any signs of wear or identifying symbols scattered across your shoulders. He seemed intent on searching for any clue to your identity or past. His observation was detailed, precise, almost surgical.

Your structure stood out for its elegance. Not because it was imposing or hulking—in fact, you were about Brainstorm's height, or perhaps slightly shorter—but because of the way it blended seamlessly into its overall form. You didn't need bulk to draw attention: your presence was magnetic because of the aesthetic balance of your proportions.

Your frame was a paragon of strength and grace: your shoulders were broad and defined but not disproportionate; your tapered chest tapered to a sculpted waist to highlight the dynamic thrust of your body. There was nothing heavy or crude about it: every line of your frame seemed designed to convey agility and efficiency.

The angles of your structure smoothed into soft, natural curves, far from the aggressive roughness that characterizes Cybertronians designed for modern warfare. The polished, flawless surfaces suggested an obsessive attention to detail: each plate was smooth and perfectly integrated into the subtly colored joints. The hues of your upholstery—a (C/C) that gently faded to (F/C)—created a fluid and harmonious visual effect, as if the metal itself were alive under the glare of the lights.

There was a disarming calm in your every movement: a controlled fluidity that betrayed precision and experience. You seemed to move unhurriedly, yet with a constant awareness of your surroundings, as if you had lived long enough to know that letting your guard down is a luxury few can afford.

Curious? Yes, you were. Your optics moved incessantly, leaping from one detail to another: the overhead lights, the monitors on the technical panels, Brainstorm's profile... Yet, beneath that alert surface, there was a palpable tension in your metallic muscles—that characteristic, controlled posture of a mech always ready for action.

It wasn't nervousness, no. It was something deeper, almost primal: you were in a state of constant alert. As if a moment's distraction were enough for someone to take advantage of the situation and stab you from behind.

Brainstorm noticed it immediately.

Rodimus broke the heavy silence—a silence filled with gazes studying and assessing one another—by placing a hand on your metallic back. A seemingly casual, almost paternal gesture: the kind of touch that whispers, 'Don't worry, everything's fine.'

At that moment, he spoke again.

"Brainstorm… this is (D/n)! A mercenary leader for longer than I can remember…"

Rodimus's gaze shifted between the two of you as he spoke. His tone betrayed pride and a certain admiration. He described you as an expert in close combat, but he didn't stop there; he also spoke of your proficiency in rescues. For two years straight, he emphasized, you had kept your word to the cause without ever betraying it.

Every word he spoke piqued Brainstorm's growing interest. Mercenaries… a resource that can prove both strategic and unpredictable. Yet, two vorns of dedication and loyalty? A rarity even among veterans of the Lost Light.

As Rodimus continued to expound on your qualities with infectious enthusiasm, you gazed at him, and he gazed back. There was something determined in that moment: a profound intuition hidden beneath Rodimus's characteristic frenzy. Perhaps he hoped for a connection between the two of you, some spark. He didn't know exactly what, but deep in his worn-out processor—worn by battles and responsibilities—he felt that bringing you together had been the right choice.

Perhaps he saw in your dedication the same relentless tenacity that bound you: you, the iron-disciplined mercenary leader; Brainstorm, the uncompromising scientist. Two personalities tempered by adversity and unwilling to give in.

Or perhaps it was the loyalty he recognized in both of you: an absolute dedication to ideals and causes. Brainstorm had devoted himself to the Lost Light and its principles; You, to the cause you had defended for years without ever wavering.

But perhaps it wasn't just that.

Perhaps what he had sensed—almost without being fully aware of it—was the weight of the glances you were exchanging. Intense, steady, charged with meaning that went far beyond simple introductions.

Brainstorm couldn't fool himself.

There was something magnetic about you. It wasn't just the refined design or the perfect color scheme. It was everything: the elegant proportions of your faceplate, the soft play of light reflecting off the clean metal, your chin gliding along a flawless, harmonious curve. And those derma… they seemed so soft. You were definitely one of those mechs who took care of their own structure.

The ridge of your nose was rounded just right, never aggressive, without unnecessary edges. And then there were those optics… which were slowly becoming familiar: so intense yet welcoming.

He couldn't find any flaws in examining you. And the truth? Even if there had been one, it wouldn't have changed anything. Not at that moment. In fact, paradoxically, those imperfections might have made everything even more authentic, even more… fascinating.

The more he looked at you, the harder he found it to look away. For your part, you were certainly not inert. Your (O/C) optics scanned its complex, multifaceted structure with equal attention. From the faceplate frame to the sculpted chest plates, passing through every minute curve of its blue-and-silver-hued chassis. Every detail captivated your processor with meticulous curiosity.

Yes, you were studying it too. Two mechs analyzing each other like two Cybertronian animals in unfamiliar territory, silently drawing invisible lines: friend or foe?

But Brainstorm sensed it distinctly. Something was different this time. It wasn't simple intellectual or circumstantial curiosity. No, it was deeper than that.

A familiar warmth ignited within him. A spark of long-forgotten life that brought color back to his monochrome thoughts. It was a small fire, but strong enough to warm his numb processor and shake the electronic melancholy that had enveloped him for time immemorial. He felt a placid calm descend upon him like a blanket: it was as if the long, cold distance separating machine and soul had narrowed into an eternal moment.

You stood there in silence, frozen in time. Your gazes met like an unspoken promise. After all, it had been a long, long time since Brainstorm had felt anything like this again.

The last time had been with Perceptor. A bond between two brilliant minds, united by a passion for a science, born of dialogue and intellectual exchange. But now… now it was different. There was something more than simple mental harmony: a latent intensity he couldn't ignore.

His spark couldn't lie, because right now it was pulsing so strongly. Each beat amplified every time it met your watchful, attentive gaze. He didn't want to extinguish that newborn flame—he wanted to nurture it, protect it, and understand what had made it burn so brightly after so long in the darkness.

And then there was Rodimus.

There beside you, he watched in silence, rigid as a statue but alert as a sentry, ready to intervene at the slightest hint of conflict or misunderstanding. And as he studied you both with a look of curiosity and concern, the relaxed expression he usually wore began to crack under the weight of his doubts. Perhaps you weren't as similar as he'd initially thought… or were you too similar?

The tension slowly built in the air… until it broke in a sudden but incredibly natural gesture.

Brainstorm acted first. With deliberate calm, he raised his servo toward you for a handshake. A small but crucial step to break the tense silence.

His warm servo against yours, cooler but far from hostile: with that simple gesture, your defenses lowered slightly.

Just a little. At least for now. But that would be enough.

In time, he was sure, those barriers would crumble completely. He felt it with the same firmness with which he knew that two plus two equals four: his calculations never lied. Not this time.

Rodimus watched in silence, his spark throbbing in his chassis, accelerating to the rhythm of an emotion that was growing uncontrollably.

At first, he had had doubts… What if you didn't get along at all? What if Brainstorm was too rigid? What if (D/n) was proving too mysterious? And yet…

Now he saw them there, awkwardly engaged in a formal handshake. Shy, yes… and yet something was already in the air. A subtle, imperceptible click.

A sincere smile spread across Rodimus's faceplate, wide and bright like a new dawn on Cybertron after centuries of conflict.

He knew he'd made the right decision.

Time passed like lightning during a storm, so fast it seemed impossible to perceive with the human eye.

As the vorns passed, many things changed aboard the Lost Light: technical challenges to overcome, dangerous missions, tensions among the crew… But, amid all these events and changes, a deeper transformation was silently taking place.

The relationship between Brainstorm and (D/n) grew stronger, enriching itself vorn after vorn. A special bond united them, strengthening almost without them realizing it. They spent much of their free time together: whether in Brainstorm's labs or in the corridors when one of you needed to reach a specific destination, it almost seemed as if you followed each other like two magnetic poles attracted to each other.

Your connection was astonishing. You understood each other instantly, as if your thoughts were flowing through an invisible channel. An incomplete idea was promptly completed by the other. A glance or a nod was enough to communicate what needed no words.

Anyone observing them could have said that such a bond was born from a long and deep friendship. Instead, surprisingly, it all began almost by chance. A formal handshake had ignited a spark that could transform into something wonderful: a friendship so genuine and rare that even describing it in words seemed impossible.

At first, everything was simple. Brief, polite exchanges of greetings: "Hello." Then came the warmest greetings in the corridors and a few words exchanged before going off to perform their duties. The meetings in the labs had begun as a purely professional-technical relationship; you were there only to pick up something or request an analysis for Rodimus. But slowly, those encounters transformed into moments of unexpected complicity.

Gradually, there was room for a few smiles, then for brief but sincere laughter, contrasting with Brainstorm's serious and composed side. And over time, those small details became more frequent, like a melody that gains rhythm and enriches itself.

Even meals were part of that daily ritual. The energon cubes consumed between conversations. There was nothing extraordinary: just two mechs eating together. And yet it was enough.

It wasn't long before whispers began to circulate among the crew: a few curious glances, whispered chatter in the corners of the corridors. Your obvious friendship attracted the interest of many, including your closest ones—Rodimus first and foremost—who insinuated romantic ties between the two of you, even going so far as to suspect that you were conjux or sparkmates.

At first, you distanced yourself from these assumptions. Your denials were categorical, almost automatic: "No, that's not the case at all. We're just friends!"

No romantic feelings, and above all, no intention of the latter. Right?

Brainstorm certainly wasn't the type to imagine himself in a relationship. He had neither the time nor the patience to care for a Sparkmate, let alone give him attention, understand his feelings, and respond to his needs. He was convinced that no one, ever, would want to be with him. Too demanding, too obsessed with order and perfectionism… and above all because science always came first. His research came first: before rest, before social interaction.

And yet… if that were the case…

Why, all of a sudden, had he started thinking about it? Why had he found himself thinking about you… in a relationship with him?

He couldn't find an answer either. You had upset every well-calculated plan he'd had, carved into logic since he'd arrived on the Lost Light. And that sudden chaos, that wonderful mess, bore the designation: (D/n).

But that mess? He didn't hate it. Not at all.

It had all started so imperceptibly, so subtle he almost didn't notice. The touches: brief, completely casual. A quick brush between the servo… then he began to lengthen those touches, albeit just a little. Two seconds? Three? He hoped you wouldn't notice, much less ask him why. Otherwise, how could he justify them?

He wanted more than those brief touches. Nothing that would make you uncomfortable, of course: simple gestures like holding your hand or putting an arm around your shoulders as you walked together. Small, silent things, but they meant the world to him.

When it came to spending time with you, he found any excuse to be near you. In the cafeteria, he always sat next to you; in the labs, he followed you even without a real technical need. And what was most surprising was that you didn't mind at all. In fact, you seemed to enjoy sharing those moments with your dear friend.

When you weren't by his side, he felt an emptiness in his spark. A cold, incomplete sensation that penetrated his most hidden circuits, as if something vital were missing right there, deep inside.

Even his HUD stubbornly tried to remain glued to yours, almost begging for constant contact: persisting until the very last moment.

You'd also both found new ways to spend more time together. Hours spent together in your bunks, talking nonstop until one of you got tired. What if you were the one to fall asleep first? He'd stay awake, simply staring at you.

Your delicate yet tired features; that small, serene smile plastered on your faceplate as you calmly and peacefully recharged…

He observed you without disturbing you, in an almost religious silence. Until, after long minutes, he turned off his optical devices and curled up next to you, to find that rare moment of peace he'd so longed for.

Deep down, a vague idea had already crept into Brainstorm's processor, beginning to give him nuanced answers to the reasons for his actions, but it remained a thought he hadn't yet had the courage to confirm out loud. However, the real turning point came when Perceptor saw him enter the lab.

Brainstorm was calm, as always: he entered with measured steps, placed his tools on the desk, and immersed himself in his daily work, showing no signs of change.

Perceptor looked up at him. He studied him for a moment… and then, nonchalantly, asked:

"So… you have a crush on (D/n), right?"

His vocalizer had that subtle tone, a hint of a mischievous smile that made it impossible to ignore. And, as expected, it worked.

Brainstorm froze.

His demeanor changed for a fraction of a second, a detail Perceptor noticed immediately. After all, he'd been among the few to notice the subtle changes in his friend: the more hesitant gestures, the moments stolen from the terminal, when he seemed to be searching for you almost without realizing it. And above all, the time he'd begun to spend with you more than with any other bot aboard the ship.

And Perceptor was obviously happy about that.

Finally, he thought, Brainstorm had found someone with whom he could share what truly mattered to him: his emotions, his most intimate reflections, those small pauses between a complex calculation and a brilliant idea. A safe space where he could be himself with someone who understood him without having to explain himself too much.

Just like they had, so long ago.

But Brainstorm's response was swift and perhaps overly defensive:

"No! What are you saying? We're just friends!"

But his haste in responding betrayed him. His vocalizer was too loud… and then the color of his face mask, which turned a bright, vivid blue: a phenomenon Perceptor hadn't seen in vorns.

Perceptor studied him carefully for a moment and, without saying a word, smiled. A small but eloquent smile, the triumph of someone who has just proven a theory without further verification.

Perfect.

This unexpected conversation, however, would prove more useful to Brainstorm than he had ever imagined. The overwhelming embarrassment and blatant denial confronted him with an undeniable truth: something inside him was growing. Something sincere and inevitable.

New sensations… intense… warm, like a pulsating energy flowing to the rhythm of the spark.

He tried to remember the last time he'd felt so alive and powerful, even invincible. But what he knew for sure was how much those moments with you had begun to mean to him, more than he'd ever admit.

Your smiles… so natural they lit up the room, and the rarer but profound ones, like an eclipse.

Your gazes… intense, as if they could penetrate him deeply; not with the technical curiosity with which others studied him, but with sincere affection.

Your attentions… those small, thoughtful gestures: checking if he'd slept enough; if he'd eaten; if he seemed more tired than usual.

And those fleeting caresses… light but full of meaning: a servo placed on his shoulder after a challenging task.

They were small details, but to Brainstorm, they were worth an entire universe.

And then there was your vocalizer… that calm, reassuring tone you used during your late-night conversations.

He was watching you. He was watching you as only someone in love can: with infinite sweetness.

And those derma he so desperately wanted… the idea of ​​pushing you against a wall, devouring you completely. He imagined his slightly larger servos wrapped around your waist, his tongue exploring every corner of your mouth… and how, finally, you would surrender to him. What sounds you would make if he took the liberty of biting one of the exposed cavities in your neck, sensitive to the slightest touch—

OK, OK! IT'S CLEAR THAT BRAINSTORM WAS MADLY IN LOVE WITH YOU!

Nothing, absolutely nothing, could ever extinguish those feelings he felt.

They were intense, deep… and above all, authentic. They grew with the calm, natural rhythm of a flower blooming under a gentle warmth.

There was no rush, no pressure. He enjoyed every second at your side: the light conversations during breaks, the moments in the lab punctuated by those silent, languid glances that had nothing to do with technique or work…

But for now?

He kept them inside himself.

All those feelings were sealed deep within his vital spark, well protected. He didn't want to risk compromising what the two of you had patiently built vorn after vorn; he couldn't bear the thought of losing you. Losing you would be like losing a star in the night sky… an unfillable void.

Because for him, you were his star.

Like all moments of peace, those on the Lost Light were destined to end.

No one was safe.

Not even a certain scientist who spent his days between laboratories, discoveries, and fun breaks.

Unknowingly, Brainstorm was living his last moments of tranquility.

Before the storm arrived.

A merciless storm. Inexorable. Inevitable.

And no one would have been truly prepared to face it… least of all him.

How he wished he had been the first to notice it, to identify it in time… to stop it with his bare hands, to use his brilliant mind to nip it in the bud.

But nothing can be prevented when fate is already written in the stars. Inevitable. Immutable.

Unless you are Primus himself.

It was the dead of night on the Lost Light.

Brainstorm was hunched over his data pad, absorbed in one of the reports Perceptor had left him before retiring to his quarters. He'd thanked him with a brief "thank you"… and so Perceptor had left, wishing him a good recharge, before venturing into the dimly lit corridors. A distracted reply, nothing more than a suppressed grunt, had escaped his lips as he immediately returned to his work.

The monitor, flashing intermittently, displayed the topic of the moment: "Pure Energon Synthesis from Uncommon Minerals – Vox-7 Sector."

The analyzed data came from a desolate moon recently visited during a mining mission. Those minerals were a mystery, so rare they had never been thoroughly studied before.

Brainstorm's optics remained glued to the text. The processor worked furiously, elaborating complex chemical formulas and evaluating fragile energy balances…

Every word of the report was absorbed and analyzed relentlessly.

He was so immersed in his study that he didn't hear the silent opening of the lab doors. The faint click as they closed was almost lost in the air.

A slight movement roused him: the stretching of metal limbs, tired from long inactivity. His structure was begging for respite after hours of incessant work.

It was then that the audials caught a sound: light footsteps, barely audible. Footsteps that seemed designed not to disturb. They would have succeeded, if at that precise moment Brainstorm hadn't decided to shift position in his chair.

He sensed a presence behind him.

Not just any presence. A familiar one.

The mech's HUD field gave a barely audible twitch, as if it could detect you without even turning around: like a secret frequency shared only between the two of you.

However, he decided to hold back. Maybe it would be fun to pretend nothing was happening. Play one of those little pranks he loved so much, see that adorable pout appear on your faceplate, and then hear your unmistakable laugh, the one that made something vibrate deep within his spark.

A thin, hidden smile curled his derma behind the metal mask. His posture in the chair seemed to slowly relax. His optics continued to stare at the screen in front of him… but there was nothing he could really read anymore.

Finally, he broke the silence:

"Oh? Perceptor, have you forgotten something?"

His voicalizer was tinged with a playful edge, because he already knew perfectly well that it wasn't Perceptor.

And when he heard your light laughter resonate in the air, his spark seemed to pause for a moment, only to begin beating again with irrepressible intensity at the sound of that angelic echo.

The only melody he would listen to continuously, so light and delicate, he loved deeply, just like everything about you.

"Hmm? Are we sure it's Perceptor?" you asked, an amused smile curling the corners of your derma.

Gently, you tilted your helm and rested your chin against Brainstorm's right shoulder pad.

Your warm breath—slow, almost imperceptible—caressed the sensitive hollows of his neck.

He reacted instantly: a visible shiver ran through his entire frame.

The situation had changed so quickly: from a quiet, slightly playful moment to a suddenly intimate, unexpected one.

Brainstorm couldn't help it: his circuits activated.

Familiar sensations flooded him—ones he recognized so well.

And you… were turning him on. Gradually.

Not only that: your closeness sent tingles along the exposed wires of his neck.

The cables quivered, pulsating more intensely under the warm touch of your breath.

Brainstorm's servos—first delicately placed on the desk as he completed the last tasks of the day—now began to twitch. Almost imperceptible micro-tremors ran through his optics.

The dim light of the room (the mech scientist's personal choice) hid those barely perceptible tremors.

If you had continued like this…

Brainstorm would have lost control.

Every logical protocol—those rigid rules that governed his every action—would collapse.

Suffocated by primal impulses: deep instincts that no programming could repress.

One of them? To claim you. Right there.

But for now… he knew.

He couldn't do it.

As much as every fiber of his structure screamed at him to act—electrical impulses vibrating in a loop—his moral code held.

It barely held him back, like invisible chains stretched to the limit.

But it wouldn't last much longer: he was certain of it.

The barrier between instinct and reason was thinning… minute by minute… warm breath against his sensitive wiring…

And above all: the gentle pressure of your chassis against his back… right where the sensitive beginnings of his wings were.

That gentle touch sent further jolts of pleasure through his circuits, threatening guttural moans from his metal throat if I continued.

His valve pulsated uncontrollably, swollen with desire. The unexpected pleasure made him clench his metal legs together, desperately trying to relieve the burning heat that was growing relentlessly between his thighs.

Thankfully, the desk top hid the underside of his frame, preventing me from seeing him in that condition… and mistaking him for a pervert.

He could hear the vents activating with a barely audible hiss.

On his optics' display, a red alert flashed:

[Thermal Overload in Progress - System Alert]

The internal temperature was soaring beyond safety limits—dangerous levels. Dangerously high.

Fuck emergency protocols. Fuck precautionary measures.

This wasn't what he wanted.

What he wanted was you.

And he knew it well: the situation was getting worse by the clicks… it was becoming suffocating, oppressive… it was making it hard to breathe… hard to think clearly.

But he didn't complain for a nanosecond.

But the worst part?

Was that you didn't even notice.

You looked at him with those optics: so innocent, so familiar… the same ones you always used. When he was mentioned in conversation. When you bumped into him in the hallways.

There was no way I couldn't see the devastating effect you were having on him in that precise moment.

Either you were incredibly naive—stupidly pure, beautifully unaware…

or… you were doing it all on purpose.

And then suddenly—by a miracle or not…

—everything stopped.

The moment was shattered by a slight, amused snort.

Then, calmly, you raised your chin and returned to your starting position, as if the incident had been nothing more than a friendly, insignificant gesture.

For you, it was merely a casual act.

But for Brainstorm?

It was anything but.

Regaining control in that precise moment was complicated.

Regaining clarity after that brief, intimate exchange was anything but simple.

Somehow, Brainstorm had done it.

For him, what had happened just an instant before—that fleeting moment of intimacy—seemed already fading… like a distant, blurry memory.

But his inner core?

It still vibrated. He burned with desire for that sudden burst of lightheartedness to happen again… for it to return immediately.

But he knew it was unlikely: moments so spontaneous rarely happen twice.

With a slight sigh, halfway between acceptance and resignation, he let the chair move, slowly turning him around…

He could see you clearly now: your metallic frame gleamed faintly under the soft light of the room… and your faceplate stared straight at him.

A faint, serene smile settled on your faceplate.

Then you calmly raised your servos, carefully revealing what you had brought with you: two energon cubes.

You held them as if they were a gift of great value… and perhaps to him they truly were.

You knew his habits well. Brainstorm was one of those mechs who stayed up late at night, immersed in his calculations, reports, and technical analyses in the lab. He was a tireless worker, just like you.

You saw no reason to reproach him: he was certainly not an inexperienced youth or a youngling. He was an adult, experienced and seasoned.

And yet, despite everything… you'd brought him something to eat.

Even though you were both adult mechs, that small gesture of thoughtfulness never faltered.

He showed it with simple things: an energon cube brought late at night, an extra word in the quiet corridors… small acts of sweetness that whispered "I'm here for you" without words.

And every time it happened?

For Brainstorm, it was always like it was the first time. Not only but also because he was getting used to your affection, but because the warmth you radiated continued to ignite him, keep him alive. Every moment shared had a unique value.

He remained awkward, unsure of how to respond, what to do with that energon so delicately offered to him.

A quick glance: from your optics to the servo holding the energon, and finally to the cube.

Then, with hesitation but also determination, he reached out and took it. In that moment of absolute calm, they were building other small fragments of memory.

No grandiose events. Just that: two mechs in the lab, a little energon in their servos, and the sweet silence broken, every now and then, by the occasional exchange of words.

And yet, for you two? Those moments were as valuable as your own two spark—perhaps even more so.

They were moments that would carry with them through the most difficult times: through the dark days, through the long, lonely shifts… through the empty nights when everything seemed unbearable.

The previous tension was now completely dissolved, vanished like a file deleted from the system. As if nothing had ever happened between you.

Only peace.

A shared solitude.

It would be a while before Brainstorm recovered from all this.

Meanwhile? He would definitely have trouble to recharge.

Damn you.

Just as he raised the glass to his derma for another sip of energon…

A sudden thought struck him. A mental flash that instantly froze the energon in his digestive circuits.

He truly hoped… with all his moral programming… that he hadn't stained the chair with his lubricating fluids during that moment of intense sexual tension.

After that incident, many things happened on the Lost Light. Unpleasant, at times contradictory events.

It wasn't just the loss of more crew members—the ship captained by Rodimus shrank further, now less populated than ever. Something also happened that marked a sharp and sudden rift between you and Brainstorm.

The bond that was forming between the two of you began to slowly fray, giving way to a deep and significant rift.

That nascent spark—delicate but real—began to gradually fade.

Brainstorm noticed this almost immediately… but initially seemed to ignore it. Perhaps because, as their duties and scheduled missions increased, spending time together would become increasingly rare anyway.

And it was inevitable, albeit painful, that he would accept your absence. Visits to the lab during breaks became increasingly rare, and the moments you spent together became sporadic, almost like a faded memory.

You weren't often together anymore, and as unbearable as it was, Brainstorm chose to grit his dentas, facing it all with silent determination. He clung to a faint hope: sooner or later, this difficult period would end, and together, you would be able to make up for lost time.

Oh, poor little Brainstorm.

As the vorns passed, however, that hope collided with a reality far from his expectations. Not only did you see each other rarely, but even the evenings spent together, talking or helping him in the laboratory rooms, had become but a distant echo. Those shared hours had become like a forgotten book on a shelf, covered in dust. With each passing moment, your detachment became even more evident.

A subtle yet continuous estrangement, invisible to the unwary but painfully obvious to those who observed you attentively. And for Brainstorm, it seemed only a matter of time before that void became unbridgeable.

But his fighting spirit kept him from giving up. After all, he was considered the most brilliant scientist aboard the ship; for his sharp and brilliant processor, there were no insoluble puzzles. Yet, no formula or theory could fill the abyss left by your absence. His spark felt empty, a gaping chasm that not even the infinite mathematical possibilities or the hours spent in the lab could fill.

Even his structure's advanced systems began to show signs of emotional distress: unstable energy, disturbed cycles, and chronic artificial insomnia were taking their toll. He denied the obvious, refusing to admit how much this situation was wearing him down. It was Perceptor who tore through the veil of silence. His friend could no longer bear to see him like this and pushed him to act.

And so, finding his fading courage, Brainstorm decided to seek help from someone deeply close to you: Rodimus, your dearest confidant, the unfailing presence at your side for years.

Rodimus, in his kind and understanding way, did nothing but offer vague advice, words that sounded both optimistic and evasive: "Maybe he just needs space. Give him some." A servo placed affectionately on his shoulder tried to offer comfort along with his words.

But Brainstorm found this unsatisfactory. With a brusque, nervous gesture, he shook Rodimus's servo off his shoulder. The scientist's cold expression betrayed more melancholy than anger, and without another word, he quickly turned to return to his place of refuge: the laboratory.

There he found himself once again surrounded only by the cold glow of glowing screens and equations that seemed to be escaping his control. He pondered, searching incessantly for an answer, while a deep fear grew within him: that the fragile bond that had always united you was now close to being definitively broken.

The thread that held your relationship together was growing a little tighter every day. And Brainstorm feared that one small mistake, one wrong word, or one misinterpreted gesture would be enough to shatter it completely.

It was a prospect that terrified him. How could he lose what you had shared? Those long nights side by side in the lab. Those fleeting, warm moments stolen during breaks, where stifled laughter echoed in the silent corridors. It was all still there, vivid in his processor, yet it seemed to slip from his grasp like sand blown away by the wind.

He would never forgive himself, nor would he let you shut it all down with silence. For Brainstorm, your silence wasn't an end. It was a challenge.

So, tired of waiting, he made a decision: from that moment on, he would seek you out, day after day. Before starting work. After he finished. Even avoiding breaks with Perceptor and ignoring the advice of those who suggested he leave you alone.

Enduring your icy isolation was already unbearable. But facing it, confronting you, head-on? It seemed like the only way forward.

And so he did.

Every time he entered your room—always immaculate, flawless, and as cold as you had been lately—you ignored him. No greeting, no glance. No sign of his presence.

It was as if he were invisible. As if those incursions into your world had never happened.

Each time he left, he paused for a moment in the corridor. A heavy sigh broke the silence, filled with a mix of frustration and a darker, harder-to-define emotion… anger? Perhaps.

Exasperation?

Of course.

Every sincere attempt to get closer to you felt rejected. Every gesture of affection and patience that came along seemed to transform into a new barrier erected by you. And you did nothing to break it down.

You didn't speak. You didn't respond. You withdrew into yourself, like a capricious child who refuses to listen. And he… couldn't stand that wall of stubbornness any longer.

But the limit was reached that vorn.

He entered your room without knocking. He didn't need to: he knew the access code by heart. You had given it to him, a long time ago, when smiles were common and there was still trust between you. "Keep it, you'll need it if you ever forget something," you had said then.

It had been one of your simplest yet most meaningful gestures for him. It had filled his core with joy in those carefree days that now seemed so far away. But that happy moment was now just a bitter memory, tainted by a tired and melancholic determination.

That evening was different. It wasn't the usual Brainstorm who entered your room armed with unwavering patience and love.

No.

The tension radiating from him was almost palpable, unstable like a short fuse ready to explode at any moment. And you felt it immediately: a shiver ran through your structure, and your breathing hitched slightly.

You realized how much you had changed. A sharp thought flashed through you like a bolt of lightning: if the you of a few weeks ago could see you now… it would have given you one moral shock after another for all the stupidity you had displayed.

You were fine with it. Absolutely.

No regrets.

No guilt.

Just emptiness.

And that emptiness inside you had already transformed into something very different—something you didn't even fully understand.

And that fragile balance was shattered when the faint sound of footsteps broke the silence of the room: Brainstorm had moved. Slowly, with studied calm, he sat down next to you, but not too much, wanting to give you the space you needed.

And you? As always, you ignored him.

You looked away, staring at an indefinite point: the wall, the floor… anywhere but him.

An oppressive silence followed, heavy as lead, filling the air with its immaterial weight.

Then it happened. A dry sound came from his throat, trying to get your attention.

He tried himself. He wanted to talk. But he also wanted you to listen.

With a deep sigh—yes, almost exasperated—he broke the tension. His voice, calm, always precise and measured, made itself heard:

"Then can I kn—"

But you didn't give him a chance to finish. You interrupted him with icy contempt.

"Why don't we end this charade?"

Your words were full of cutting detachment, devoid of warmth or feeling. Just pure, raw venom.

Another wave of silence filled the room, even heavier than the last.

And then you continued, pushing further: "There's no point in you keeping coming here every time, as if I were a mech craving pity."

A barely perceptible movement passed through you—perhaps a forced sigh, perhaps just a mechanical reflex. Your optics remained blank, staring into nothingness.

"You're making a fool of yourself," you continued in a flat, monotone tone. "I know full well… you don't really care. You only do it out of a sense of duty. Out of pity. Because you think it's just a phase."

You were cruel and direct, but that didn't break him. No, it was the next blow that made him snap:

"And as for that pity… you can stick it straight in your a—"

You didn't finish your sentence.

In an instant, you found yourself lying on your back on the bed, your wrists locked above your head in a firm, implacable grip. He had never been so brutal before, but now something had changed. He was on top of you. Brainstorm. And apparently he was now also without his metal mask.

The gaze he was giving you was different. His usually calm eyes now burned with a piercing, almost predatory cold. A fury not shouted, barely contained, but equally devastating in its quiet intensity.

It was the silence he was giving you that frightened you the most. Those optics fixed on you… so cold, so charged with a sharp disappointment, palpable frustration, and something darker—deeper—that you'd never seen in him before.

His servos, delicate in other instances when they adjusted your wires or rested on you as if in a gesture of care, were now as rigid as tempered steel. They held you in place on the berth with a pressure measured enough not to hurt you… but enough to remind you that you had no escape.

You tried to call out to him pathetically.

"Brain-"

But your words were cut off by his servo around your wrists, which now tightened with an unstoppable force, his slightly larger body pinning you beneath him on the bunk. His gaze was a storm of pent-up anger and frustration. "I don't care?" His vocalizer was a metallic growl that shook your plates.

He began by bringing his maskless faceplate closer and closer to you until you were just inches apart, your skin brushing against yours, like a provocation. And then:

"I'll. Show. You. If. I. don't. care."

Without warning, his metallic derna crash against yours in a violent, merciless kiss, forcing your mouth open. Your protests are lost in his assault, his slave continuing to squeeze your wrists with gentle force as his tongue forcefully invades your mouth.

You tasted so good.

Your feeble struggle is crushed under the weight of his body and the ferocity of the kiss. "Stop struggling," he hisses against your derma, his cooling systems already revving up. "You wanted to spit poison? Now you'll drink it all."

His hot, rough tongue slips between your derma again, exploring your mouth with cruel possessiveness. His body presses even harder against you, one of his knees slides between your legs, brutally pushing them apart. Your trembling legs push feebly, to no avail.

Seeing your inability to push him away, he took advantage of it, slowly but firmly pressing his knee against your modesty panel. He began massaging it in small, slow, tortuous circles, drawing small moans from you against your will as his derma moved down your neck.

"Aaahn!" a rather lascivious moan escaped your now-free derma. As Brainstorm continued his assault on both your modesty panel and your sensitive neck, you took advantage of the situation by letting out more moans. As the stimulation of your modesty panel increased, he could hear a:

"Ngh… oh Primus…"

Instead of stopping, Brainstorm continued to attack your neck with small kisses and bites. Until he found a specific spot, and it didn't take long for his teeth to sink into that particular spot on your neck, a metallic growl vibrating against your throat as he sucked and bit brutally. Just a few touches were enough to make you come like a prostitute, and he was confirming it himself.

"Look, you look so pathetic," he whispered hoarsely between bites.

Leaving more deep marks on the hollows of your neck, his dentas continuing to sink mercilessly into other parts of your structure, drawing more moans from you that you couldn't hold back.

Your struggle slowly stopped.

You were apparently enjoying this whole situation.

And he could tell, even from the fact that your valve was starting to leak like a broken fountain.

And he hadn't done anything yet, he was just touching you.

Who knows what he would have done if… without thinking twice, his free servo, which was leaning against your helm, moved to your neck, enveloping it completely, applying gentle pressure, eliciting another lascivious moan, accompanied by your lubricating fluid that continued to overflow from under your panel.

Now that was a dirty little novelty, one he would have noted mentally.

As he continued his torture of your most sensitive sensors, you swore you began to feel a little drool slowly dripping from your derma…

I wonder what you looked like at that moment…

More coolant was dripping from your optics from the excessive pleasure you were receiving at that moment.

Brainstorm was enjoying the state he was reducing you to, you could tell by the little devilish smile plastered across his faceplate.

It was what you deserved, and now you were slowly paying the price. But, as it continued… you didn't mind anymore.

• Laughing at the dismay on his strangely handsome face, you push the top of your coveralls down around your waist and pull your undershirt off over your head, stripping and his head dips. Mouth opening on your neck, your chest as you arch into him, hands clutching his head to you as you shiver at the scrape of his denta on you. Can hear your own ragged breathing as his hands fight with getting your coveralls the rest of the way off without moving you out of his lap. Don’t even care when you hear material rip, distracted by the feel of his mouth sliding against your skin, sucking and nipping as he explores lazily.

• Wanting to groan at the sounds you make, you’re clutching his head to yourself and all he can think of is what noises you’ll make when he’s inside you. Trying to peel you out of your lower coverings, you’re grabbing his hand, guiding it down the front of your covering instead. And your breath hitches when he cups you, stroking you. Spike releasing and pressurizing suddenly, you startle, hips rocking against his servos. Your scent. Those hungry noises. All of it has him strung tight. Aching to claim what’s his. Because you are his.

• Moaning his name as his spike rubs against his arm and your belly as he strokes you, you’d wanted to see him lose control. To wreck that superior attitude of his and bring him to his knees. Make him admit he wants you. Instead you’re the one moving urgently against him, your breath catching as you ride his servos. “You want me,” he growls and you almost laugh. ‘Like I’m the only one needing this,’ you counter, flustered. Hips rolling, you tilt your body to brush up against his spike as you shimmy your coveralls down over your hips and he groans.

• Needs inside you before he overloads, his optics meeting your hooded eyes. Seeing the challenge there. Daring him to deny that he wants you. “I want you,” he admits, the words gruff. Costing him to admit it as he slips his servos free of you and grips your hips to tug you into his frame. Trying to line you up as you laugh and manage to kick one boot off and get the leg of your covering off that leg. And you’re telling at him to wait so you can get your coveralls the rest of the way off even as he guides you to his spike and helps sink you down, his frame straining as your slick heat takes him deep, making him shudder at how tight you are as you both groan. Been imagining this, but it’s nothing like the real thing.

Previous

• Oh, no. Is he peacocking? Watching his plating fluff up slightly, his biolights pulsing, and his wings up and straining, you’ve seen Cybertronians doing this before for their caretakers and you bite into the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing and offending him. It is absolutely adorable, though. Making you certain he likes the new work-mandated coveralls as he circles you, mass shifting to reach for your hand on the cart handle and he’s pulling you into his chassis. “I knew you’d come around eventually,” he growls, his voice so certain that you’re wearing this for him that you flush. Because as much as you enjoy messing with him, flirting and teasing, that voice does things to you.

• “What makes you think that?” You counter as his palm slides down your spine to curve possessively against your hip. Venting deeply, he smirks behind his mask. You can deny it all you want, but your scent is all heat and need. Servos of his other hand sliding against your throat as you lay your soft hands on his chassis, his head lowers. ‘Are you saying you don’t want me?’ He growls as his mask retracts and he can’t look away from your lips when they part. From the quick glimpse of the tip of your tongue that makes him wonder what that mouth would feel like under his, on his body. His spike.

• Can hear the challenge in his voice, see the calculation in his optics. Like he’s daring you to cry off and back down. Breath hitching when his hand slides to cup your butt and rock your hips against his, his smirk is pure provocation. Tempting you to deny him just for spite. “I can hear your fans. I’m not the one all hot and bothered,” you whisper, gripping his chassis to arch your body into his, lips a breath from his own as you hike your leg against his hip and he makes a very undignified and hungry sound that spins you tight.

• Little liar. You’re as affected as he is. Lips ghosting against yours in a teasing caress that’s not quite a kiss, he rumbles. “So why can I smell your heat?” He growls and he can feel your warm breath on him, the alien sensation shockingly intimate as his servos flex, squeezing your butt lightly and those eyes flash. Face brushing yours as you flush, he nips your bottom lip, spike pulsing behind his plating. “You can’t lie to me,” he adds and your mouth crashes against his, fingers catching at his plating for leverage. And he’s stumbling. Sitting awkwardly on your cart to send his energon barrel and wash bucket crashing onto the ground. Groaning as you straddle him, moving against him as you kiss him. How the frag does he get you out of those coverings?

• Where is he? Always late if he even bothers to show up at all and when he does? Acts like he’s doing you some big favor. Pacing, you hear a scuff and turn, eyes immediately narrowing when he wiggles something pinched between his servos at you. “Look what I’ve got,” he growls and your eyebrows lift. Is that a freaking yogurt tube? Even with the mask hiding half his face, it’s obvious he expects some sort of reaction.

• Well, you’re not nearly as excited as he expected, but food is obviously part of human bonding. Has seen other humans sharing snacks before. Sitting together and talking. “Oh, yum,” you mutter, reaching up a hand and he mass shifts, holding the strange, food tube over your head out of reach. Making a face at him, you sigh as he tries to tear open the tube like that other human had. Intending to feed you.

• “I can open it myself,” you say. And you’re not nearly awake enough for whatever this is as he finally just tears it open with his denta. Holding the yogurt tube up to your lips, optics brightening. He does understand you’re capable of feeding yourself, right? Tempted to just walk away, you remind yourself that you’re supposed to play nice and keep him happy. Inhaling slowly, you open your mouth, playing along with him and letting him have his way.

“Stormy, please,” you whimper. Bent over on all fours, you’re being fucked into by Brainstorm’s newest invention. You wish he would at least test them out in the berth, but no, he stripped you down and lubed you up in his laboratory.

Brainstorm is watching you with keen interest, his interface panels leaking profusely. He fiddles with the remote for the machine in one servo, turning it in his palm constantly.

Your wet cunt is squelching with each push of the mechanical, fake spike, and that sound alone does wonders for Brainstorm.

"You look so fucking hot like this, by the way," your lover comments.

You huff, followed shortly by a whine as the constant fucking is starting to get overwhelming. You already have a film of sweat clinging to your body, your baby hairs sticking to your forehead as you ball your hands into fists against the work surface.

"It'd be hotter if you were the one behind me," you reply airily.

"You don't like my invention?" Brainstorm asks with a pout.

It takes every ounce of your willpower not to roll your eyes at his tone. That sad puppy-dog tone that isn't genuine in the slightest. You drop your head between your shoulders, gazing down the length of your body to see your dripping cunt make a mess of the worktop.

"I can turn it off and fuck you, if that's what you really want," Brainstorm carries on.

“Don’t be awkward,” you puff, “You know that’s what I want.”

“Fine,” Brainstorm says, “Just orgasm at least once from the machine, and then I’ll take over.”

God, there are always conditions with him. He can’t ever just give you what you need. He can be so difficult sometimes.

“I’m sure this will help,” Brainstorm adds as he clicks on the remote. The machine currently rearranging your guts whirs, and another panel hisses open just below the thrusting mechanical dildo.

From the newly opened hatch protrudes a small, bullet-looking instrument. You can’t tell what it is at first, peering down your body to see it getting closer and closer to your cunt.

In the next second, it presses up so that it’s flush with your clit.

Ah, now you understand.

Before you can utter a single word, the instrument starts to vibrate. You gasp out, the intensity of the immediate pleasure shooting bolts down your thighs.

To add fuel to the fire, it starts to match the dildo with thrusts, though this time much shallower to ensure it doesn’t slip off your clit. Your hips buck in reaction, the dual-stimulation setting fireworks off underneath your skin.

“Do you like it?” Brainstorm asks, his grin wide beneath his mask.

“Like isn’t strong enough of a word,” you tell him, your hips grinding against the artificial devices like you’re pleading with it to give you more.

“Shall I start a timer?” Brainstorm says, putting his index digit against the chin of his mask in thought, “We can try to set a new record for you. See how fast you cum from it?”

“It wouldn’t bruise your ego if I got off from this quicker than I can get off with you?” You counter as a challenge, hoping it’ll rile him.

“My inventions are an extension of myself,” Brainstrom claims, his servo moving from his chin to the centre of his chassis. “And anything it can do for you, I promise I can personally do better.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” you breathe a laugh back, trying to ward off the orgasm that you can feel rising in your lower half. You don’t want this to finish so soon, you don’t want to give him that satisfaction.

But Brainstorm can see it. He knows when you’re close, something about your energy shifts. The blue mech’s optics glint, recognising his opportunity. Seeing the perfect moment to strike.

“I want you to cum for me, and if you do, I’ll modify my glossa so that it vibrates,” Brainstorm lays the bait out, knowing you’ll bite.

The thought of his helm between your legs with a vibrating glossa makes you suck a surprised breath. He knows you well. Maybe a little too well.

And so, you give him what he so desperately wants. It’s what you and your body want, too, no matter how much you try to deny it.

Just the sight of your quivering body and your eyes rolling back could be enough to make Brainstorm overload.

It’s a good thing he’s seconds away from mass displacing so he can join you on the worktop and have his way with you until your legs turn to jello.

You feel him shifting to press a gentle kiss on the top of your head before slowly moving down. You giggled softly as he moved to kiss and nuzzle at your neck; slightly ticklish. Brainstorm’s engine purred softly at your quiet laughter as he continued to kiss and gently nip at your neck. You had noticed his frame heating up behind you but ignored him, which he clearly hadn’t liked. You feel your own body start to heat up at the feeling of his denta pressing against your skin again and again.

“Was the movie boring?” You asked with another barely concealed laugh. His engine rumbled softly again.

“You’re more interesting. You’ve kept me waiting all day y’know,” Brainstorm murmurs between kisses. His servos gently poking and prodding at your body, running along your sides and thighs. You sigh dramatically.

“You’re so needy Stormy,” you say with amusement. You wriggle in his grip to turn around fully to face him. Wrapping your legs around his waist, you cup his face with your hands. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” You say with a smile. His wings twitch up in a happy flick. You lean in, and cover his lips with yours. One of his servos moving to cup the back of your head gently as you open your mouth for him. He’s quick to push his glossa into your mouth. He whines against your lips as you gently pull away to breathe.

“Babe,” He whines. He’s very cute when he’s needy, you decide. “I need you, please.” His servos tugging gently on your clothes; insistent but not forceful. You giggle and push his servos away gently for a moment. Quickly you are stripping for him, the movie long since forgotten.

“Brainstorm, you’re so cute when you get like this,” You coo, adoring his flushed face. His wings flick happily again before his ailerons fan out in a gesture you have learned to interpret as flirty. His servos are all over you again once you lean towards him. You steal another kiss, this time shoving your tongue into his mouth. He moans enthusiastically as his servos pinch lightly at your skin.

Brainstorm gently urges you backward until you’re laying on your back, underneath him. You wrap your legs around his waist again, pressing your crotch against his. He grinds his hips into you, and you can feel the heated panel that hides his spike press against you. You moan softly as he continues to kiss you deeply and grind slowly. “Stormy please,” You beg quietly when he lets your mouth go. You grind your hips against his harder when he still keeps his panel closed.

“I thought you said I was needy,” He teases with a smug grin. You roll your eyes. He chuckles before letting his panel retract and his spike pressurize. His optics shutter for a moment as he moans mutely. His optics open again as he feels your smaller hands brush against his spike. “Go on,” he whispers encouragingly. You wrap one of your hands around his spike and slowly stroke him. He shivers, his plating rattling slightly. You move your hand a little faster, swiping transfluid from his tip down the length of his spike for an easier time. His engine purrs as his hips twitch forward. “Let me frag you,” he says, moving his servo to your wrist, stopping your hand.

“Fine,” you say with feigned exasperation. You release his spike from your grip and wiggle your hips expectantly. Brainstorm wastes no time shifting his hips and thrusting into you. Mercifully, he goes slowly, allowing you to accommodate him. He groans loudly as he bottoms out, and he starts a slow pace. “Stormy… more please.” You moan as you move your hips against his. He obliges you enthusiastically, pulling you into a more comfortable position for the both of you.

“Oh Primus babe,” he pants as he thrusts. His wings twitch erratically. You moan out his name and practically scream it when one of his servos finds your clit. His mouth crashes against yours, pouring a heated kiss into your mouth. “I’m so close, frag!” He growls as he thrusts harder.

“Brainstorm, fuck!” You howl as you feel yourself coming undone. You only last a few more moments before you feel a wave of pleasure wash over you. He continues thrusting, chasing his own pleasure.

“I’m so close, frag frag frag!” He practically wails before he overloads. You feel the rush of his transfluid filling you as you slowly come down from the high of your orgasm. Brainstorm lowers himself carefully until he is laying on you, spike still buried inside you. “I love you so slaggin’ much,” he whispers. You reach out to place your hands on his helm and pet the top gently.

“I love you too Stormy,” you murmur. You nudge his helm and he takes the hint to roll over, pulling you with him so you’re laying on your sides facing each other. You lean forward to kiss him gently and he smiles contentedly when you pull away. You fumble for the tv remote, turning it off so the room is only lit by his bio lights. “Goodnight, Pretty.” You say, watching in amusement as his wings twitch happily again. You close your eyes and curl closer against him.