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A long, low moan is drawn from the base of Misfire's throat; the feeling of his being akin to being split in half but not so is erotic. Misfire could call his array of average size, but Grimlock is a whole nother beast, literally.
Through torn and ragged vents, the deep growl of his lover holds itself into Misfire's audials. Grimlock is big, no doubt about it, but size is well felt without looks, and Misfire can feel his dear's length stretch him more to his liking. The thing about beastformers is that they are always going to be big, most of them anyway, and Grimlock is of no exception. Misfire can feel it, in the calipers of his valve cycling down to manage the intrusion drawing all forms of ecstasy into him.
It is like a weight is pressed down onto his hips and aft, yet the gentlest touch is befalling his spinal struts. Today is a slow day, with the type of interfacing becoming of it. Misfire's face in the sheets, drunk on pleasure and little else, is enough for himself and his lover. It's dopey and dorky and sappy and whatever, but even the most highest strung of individuals will eventually get their downtime.
A claw traces the edge of his wing and Misfire shivers, of great delight to Grimlock. The subtle scraping of that sharpness sends the chills down from the wings to struts then to protoform. There is a slight grating, sandy noise to Grimlock's touch, as his paint is being scratched off. Like he's being marked. It is so.
It's less thrusting and more grinding as Grimlock is claiming him; all the way to his gestational seal where it's being teased but not rammed into. His lover is just grinding into that area, like a button of only pleasure, to be dealt with with care instead of pain. Grimlock is deep within him, and yet his array cannot seem to let go of him. It is of great appeal that when Grimlock pulls out, that Misfire squeezing around him elicits an erotic moan from both.
Grimlock is very aware about wing sensitivity, and so when Misfire feels claws grope at his neck cables, he lets the other pull some taut; Misfire jerks. "Mn, that's an important cable there, big guy. F-fuck..!"
Like grabbing a rung of rope, the peripheral cables bundle into the servo of his lover, just on the edge of masochism to give Grimlock a servohold on him. Misfire is thinking little of it and more on how full Grimlock is making him.
The flier starts moaning in earnest, stirred on by Grimlock thrusting in earnest. Even after all this time, it seems his dear feels just as big as their first night together, stretching him and claiming him— it is sorely welcome.
The way his nodes are hit just right, the way he hears the ragged venting above him, the metal of his wings sorely avoided to prevent pain during what should be full pleasure; Misfire can feel the charge cycle down to his fingertips. He moans loud and awful and funny and wanton, to the point that he's pretty sure the neighbors can hear him but they've dealt with ages of this couple's interfacing and haven't yet complained.
A noise rakes out of Grimlock every time he bottoms out. A distinctive hiss he give every time he pulls out. Misfire wants it all and so his valve clenches like a vice to draw more and more out of him. His hips push back as a plea for more and more please more and more he needs him so bad. His neck cables are pulled like he's seen in those odd organic holovids, and the washing fluid springs from his optics.
"Ng, G-grimlock..!" The noise keens into the air; it feels so good, Misfire nearly can't stop himself. He feels him. Every time the blunt helm of his lover's spike meets with his seal, every time it brushes past his nodes, Misfire feels him. He wants to turn over and see him, and yet, his will is plundered as soon as he feels his nodes being lit up once again.
A hiss. "Guh, o-oh fuck. Misfire."
Hot ventilations puff against his neck cables; he's right up at Misfire throat. By now, Grimlock has stopped thrusting once more, letting Misfire valve simply hold that glorious spike hilted to the most. Misfire wonders if Grimlock can feel every clench and flinch his calipers cycle down on that member. From the way Grimlock's ventilation picks up, he'd say yes.
"You're a tease," Grimlock huffs. From his periphery, Misfire spots the distinctive facial scarrings of a face seldom seen bare. It's his and his alone to bear witness to.
"I still love you," is the reply. He sweetens the pot with more squeezing and a push back with his hips. He is rewarded with a rough kiss to his seal.
It is soooooo tempting to unlock that little seal and just let his lover ram his insides, but Misfire would very much not like a surprise spark floating around in his chamber, so this… this grinding into it, like a kiss to it, akin to a lover's embrace, is one, will have to do. His judgment is proved correct when Grimlock floods his release into Misfire's waiting valve, the hot, liquid love dripping out like his very own tears. To Misfire's joy, Grimlock does not stop thrusting, even as the act becomes a staccato. It's erratic yet erotic. It is palpable yet pleasurable.
The whimpers sneak out of him like a loose flood of mice; every thrust that brings Misfire over the edge undoes his lover as well. Neck cables once grabbed are long abandoned— servos are planted to cage a frame under a hulking behemoth who wants nothing more to dump as much ecstasy as he can into his lover.
Everything Grimlock does elicits the utmost pleasure he could dole out to him. The filling sensation as he bottoms out combined with the slick, erotic fluids of his release does little to make Misfire feel gross; better yet, he feels like he's the top of the world. A sturdy berth is needed for someone so strong, yet so stoic in showing it. Misfire is close, as nodes are lit up with in him, from seal to ceiling to anterior does charge trail from his intimates and turn to pure joy in his processor.
Deep, deeper, and deepest feels like a mantra the more Grimlock rails him. Misfire squeezes— his tears spring forth to manage the stimulation, not out of the pain, but out of pure, unadulterated pleasure. His moans reach a pitch too high for some, certainly cutting through the walls, but valves don't care if your neighbors will hear, because something is sliding through them to make people care for only the ecstasy.
And so, through grit dentae and budding tears, does Misfire overload. He practically thrashes around as his valve cycles down on Grimlock's spike. It clenches down to milk a member spent of a fill to a valve already having its fill. Misfire sobs and cruel and joy of an overload crashes into him like waves. It hits him hard and exponentially wanes its intensity, as his array seems to not want the pleasure to stop.
Grimlock speak low and firm, affectionate and soft. "That's a nice overload right there."
Misfire giggles and he props himself on his forearm. "I should say so myself. Gah, s'all sticky…" A deep moan leaves him as a large spike leaves him empty. His digits skirt the rim of his array, stirring around the obscene mix of transfluid, lubricant, and other miscellaneous liquids swirling in a sprawling mess on the berth. Strings stay attached as he pulls away from his array— how erotic. "Fuck… so much…"
He shifts to his back, hooking a servo to the underside of his knee and lifts, exposing his intimate to Grimlock. His other servo snakes itself down, and there begins a mild session of Misfire clumsily trying to finger himself. It's clumsy because all that Grimlock poured into him spills onto the berth as Misfire plays with himself. Wet and gross and hot and messy yet strangely chilling in that sensual way, Misfire looks at him, dead on, as his own moans spill just as much as his lover's release spills from him. He wants more.
Grimlock will give it to him. Parallel to Misfire's own self-servicing is Grimlock's as well. Misfire watches as two servos descend upon his lover's array, one to the valve and one to the spike, multitasking at its finest. Grimlock shifts to loom over him, not yet touching down his helm to the sheets. The full breadth of their distance is enticing, so close yet so far to a kiss, and yet all Misfire can do is pleasure himself whilst his lover does the same, two-fold might he add.
The vents are hot on his face as a scarred one breathes them down. Misfire's digits are taking great care to try and match what Grimlock gave him, only to far short on sizing. His anterior node will do just fine anyway, and maybe even more with how wanton a moan comes out for its stimulation. He whispers low, but he really does not need to. "Mark me."
From here, Misfire can see how Grimlock's dentae grit from the the pleasure drawing him taut. How it goads him into release. Oh, how much of a mess it will make, the annoyance yet gentle affection for an act of utmost intimacy and sexual endorsement. He wants to bear that mess on his frame, like he will display it as a medal of honor.
It does not take long for Misfire's oversensitive valve to spasm around his fingers, trying to do well to milk them for nothing (as opposed to milking Grimlock's spike to a fluid unwanted in the long run). Said fluid is well wanted now, and the mere noise and moan of Misfire overloading his enough for Grimlock to hurry up, sit back on his haunches and quicken his pace. Misfire is all but a puddle of pleasure right now, stained and tainted with the erratic spurts of transfluid that will run into his seams like worms. He wants it. It's messy and dirty and whatever but he wants it.
The release splatters all the way to his chin and makes the most of itself near Misfire's folds. It streaks and slips across his chassis in splashes of love— the throaty groan leaving Grimlock does little to diminish that. Lubricant drips from both of them as their valves are slick with climax. Pray tell, how is Misfire supposed to despise the clean-up afterward if the moment feels so divine?
His glossa dips out of his mouth to try and catch of taste of transfluid. He fails, as he is too tired to exert more effort than it's worth. The berth is somehow uncomfortable and comfy. Half is stained with the obscene, the other with niceties, soft stuff that would be unheard of to Cybertronians of old. Misfire feels like putty. In the moment, he simply stares at the ceiling, marred with some previous adventures of more experimental interfacing. The energy for more is gone right now. He's tired and pleasure drunk, riding down a high that Grimlock is sorely is as well— he wants to sleep, but…
"It's always so messy," Grimlock grumbles, pulling at the sheets all while Misfire is still on them. He elects to roll himself onto the bare berth, and shut his optics. He hears the sheets bunch up and be thrown elsewhere, followed by a sigh. Their berth is stiff, suited to cleaning better, and sturdy; Grimlock climbs in and pushes all the soft pillows aside and makes himself at home next to Misfire. Face first into a pillow, Grimlock doesn't say much else besides a "…sleepy."
A moment passes, before Misfire registers it and asks, "Grimsy?"
He check for a moment, before he realizes his lover has fallen asleep at last. Oh well. He settles himself and does the same.
Clean up will be a future them problem then.