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There’s a magnetic storm in the local forecast, so they can't navigate back up to the W.A.P. until morning.
Typical.
Misfire's not too bothered by it — they don't have anywhere pressing to be, and thanks to Grimlock pitching in, their fuel tanks are full enough he's not worrying about picking through garbage anytime soon.
It’s easy enough to find a place that’ll take a few creds for lodging, but there aren't enough Cybertronian-sized rooms for all of them to have their own, so everyone’s gotta share. Krok suggests they draw wires to be fair, but Misfire waves it off and volunteers to bunk with Grimlock, since no one else really wants to. Grimlock only tilts his head and shrugs, taking the room with the best viewing angle of the exit hallway.
Probably so he can shoot anyone who tries to come through it without asking.
Misfire follows him. It gets him a couple knowing looks. He makes a rude gesture at the rest of them where Grimlock can't see.
It's a small room, but the berth is definitely big enough and sturdy enough for both of them, by some miracle of them actually resupplying on a planet that sees a modest amount of Cybertronian colonist traffic for once. The walls are a little thin, mostly a hollow concrete-like construction of some kind, and if Misfire turns his audials up enough he can hear Spinister and Fulcrum bickering faintly over who gets the side of the berth closest to the door.
Misfire can't help but smile to himself. These are the better days he'd always hoped they'd live to see. He looks up at Grimlock, who's already looking back at him.
"What's funny?" Grimlock asks, head tilted. It's amazing how expressive he is once you spend enough time untangling what all his little gestures mean.
"Nothing, I was just thinking about how everything worked out," Misfire says. "Our luck turned around, after all."
"I suppose it did," Grimlock says genially. He turns his head like he's listening to something out in the hallway. "Wait here. I'll make sure our exits are secure."
He vanishes quietly in that way big mechs sometimes make look like a magic trick; one second he's in Misfire's optical feed and the next there's empty air.
"Weirdo," Misfire says fondly to himself.
Grimlock is a lot. He's all Misfire spends his processing power on some days — not that Misfire's particularly well known to be a deep thinker. Misfire thinks he knows the answer to how Grimlock feels about him, but he's a little afraid to break the strange, warm peace between them on a gamble.
He sits down on the edge of the berth, sticking both legs out in front of him. Misfire's not much to look at on the best of days. He's grateful that most of his plating stays attached.
Most of it. He reaches down, fiddles with his rattling shin panel. A whole section comes off, suddenly attached by nothing but sensory cabling.
Misfire sighs.
He can't ever get the damn armor plate to line up right when it comes off, so he's in for a few minutes of fumbling at the very least. He needs to get the attachment point refurbished, but Misfire's not exactly personally flush with the kind of creds that can pay for that sort of thing. Fuel comes first, then critical components, then — all the way down the list — a loose piece of nonessential armor.
Misfire doesn't notice Grimlock's back until he's already casting a shadow over Misfire.
"Let me," Grimlock says quietly and goes down on his knees directly in front of Misfire, who has to lean back to not conk their heads together. "Hold still a minute."
Grimlock’s hands are huge. Misfire can only look at them with a vaguely trembling sense of apprehension and a conflicting feeling of warmth that both insist on blooming in his chassis.
Misfire’s a little divided on the feeling.
But Grimlock’s thumbs move carefully over his shin, feeling for the attachment point, and he snaps the loose plate back into place with a surprising deftness for a mech with such large hands. There’s a faint tingle as the haptics fully reconnect and Grimlock rubs his thumb firmly over the inner seam, just once, banishing the discomfort almost instantly.
"Thanks," Misfire says, the word coming out a little too soft. He hurriedly claps his hand on Grimlock’s shoulder in a way that he hopes is companionable and not actually annoying. "You’re the best."
"No problem," Grimlock says.
"So what's your opinion? Safe and sound for tonight?" Misfire asks, keeping his optics fixed on his own knees. Unfortunately, he still gets most of Grimlock in his peripheral vision.
Most of Grimlock, who's still kneeling in front of him, apparently disinclined to move.
"Better than some," is all Grimlock admits. "I'll take the door side. Ready for recharge?"
"Yeah," Misfire says and then realizes how true that is. He arches his back, flexing his spinal strut, and his joints make a satisfying popping noise as they all realign. "I'm beat."
Grimlock still doesn't move to stand. Misfire opens his mouth, makes the mistake of glancing up at Grimlock, who's looking back at him with his head cocked in a way that's distinctly curious, and then hastily looks away again. He draws his legs up the side of the berth, careful not to touch Grimlock, and scoots back rapidly, his fuel pump suddenly working double time.
Misfire does everything to put space between them short of flinging himself against the far edge of the berth, which is built into the wall. He presses himself flat against the cool concrete with the distinct feeling he's being way too obvious about his little crush. The berth is big enough that even Grimlock has ample room to climb in beside him.
He remains that way, perfectly still, while Grimlock settles in for the evening. Grimlock's pre-recharge ritual is apparently a lengthy process — he does some actuator maintenance and even gets out a soft-bristled brush and works it through several of his joints with a rhythmic swish-swish-swish sound, the smell of warm mineral oil suffusing the room. Even Misfire's relaxed by several measures by the time Grimlock packs up his detailing kit, and he's not even the one getting polished.
Grimlock's weight makes the berth creak as he settles. There's almost total silence from him except for the deep mechanics of Grimlock's frame, a faint hum of electricity and the nearly imperceptible cycling of his ventilations, no doubt working nonstop to cool his prodigious frame.
It makes something in Misfire itch just to think about it. He's definitely got a problem. He's been around plenty of big mechs and none of them have ever got him a warm under the panels just by virtue of size.
After Grimlock got better, it started slow. Grimlock hugging him back. Grimlock listening intently to Misfire yammering endlessly about some completely frivolous bartering session with an alien merchant. Grimlock helping Misfire up into the cargo bay, his hand under Misfire's elbow, a touch lingering.
Misfire goes back and forth on whether or not he's misreading it, because Grimlock isn't exactly the emotionally effusive sort. Misfire doesn't think he is.
The wall is cold, sapping the heat from his paneling. He shifts uncomfortably and glances at Grimlock, who still has plenty of room next to him for Misfire to scoot over.
Slowly, so as not to disturb Grimlock's rest, Misfire creeps closer to his massive bulk, basking in the ambient heat he throws off, which is significant. He knows a lot of mechs that don't like being really hot, but Misfire's got great internal airflow and he enjoys that baking feeling that comes from standing just a little too close to a furnace. The furnace, in this case, being Grimlock.
Grimlock doesn't say anything. His visor is dimmed but not completely dark, so Misfire can't tell if he's in recharge yet.
He shifts around a little, squirming. There’s plenty of room in the berth. Plenty. Maybe he can even work his way around and end up pressed up against Grimlock's chassis without making it seem like it's on purpose. One of Misfire’s favorite things is getting his arms around Grimlock — and letting Grimlock get his arms around Misfire. Grimlock’s surprisingly open to casual displays of affection from Misfire, even if he isn’t from basically anyone else.
Again, Misfire tries not to read too much into it.
He really wants to.
Misfire twists again, trying not to think of how big and hot and strong Grimlock is, but that’s a total lost cause, because when thirty tons of mech is recharging next to you in a berth it’s hard to ignore the sheer presence.
He nearly comes straight out of his plating when Grimlock abruptly rolls over and slings his arm across Misfire's midsection, effectively trapping him in place. Very quietly, Grimlock asks, "What do you need?"
Misfire tenses, charge flaring low in his chassis. "What do I need? — what do you mean what do I need?"
"To recharge. What do you need?" Grimlock doesn't sound annoyed, only curious. "You’re wiggling around."
Misfire stares blankly up at the sloping ceiling of the strange room. The berth is just a little uncomfortable, there are strange scraping noises in the hallway, and the only decent thing about the experience is having Grimlock next to him.
That feels a little complicated and a little stupid to say out loud.
Misfire touches Grimlock on the back of the shoulder, holding Grimlock's arm in place over him. "Just feeling restless. You don't gotta stay up."
"Can't recharge with you squirming," Grimlock says, low and amused, his visor oscillating through several brightness levels. "So, need something? Refuel? Engex? Some privacy?"
Misfire stiffens slightly at the last, the way Grimlock's voice pitches even lower and quieter.
"Privacy?" Misfire pretends to misunderstand. His array clenches behind his panel. If he wasn’t properly charged up before, he certainly is now.
"Or not," Grimlock says and knocks Misfire for a loop by putting a hand on his hip. "I could stay. Would it help?"
"Are you fragging with me or something?" Misfire asks, turning to look at him. They’re so close, Grimlock’s face much nearer to his than he expects. "Now would be the worst possible time for you to learn how to play a practical joke."
"Not joking," Grimlock murmurs. He starts to withdraw. "I’ll give you some privacy?"
"Wait —" Misfire hisses as quietly as he can manage, snagging Grimlock’s elbow joint. Mercifully, Grimlock’s retreat halts voluntarily, because Misfire is pretty sure if it didn’t he’d be dragged right out of the berth. "Wait, wait. If you’re serious, I’m — yes."
Grimlock settles beside him, his frame pressed directly against Misfire's. There's not a lot of room for ambiguity there.
A big palm covers his abdominal plating. Misfire draws in a sharp ventilation.
"Okay?" Grimlock asks.
"Yeah, I —" Misfire stops himself from saying something incredibly stupid like, I've been thinking about this every night or even worse I love you. He clenches and unclenches his fists. "It's just been a while, that's all."
"Don't be nervous," Grimlock says, his voice a deep rumble near Misfire's audial. "I'll go slow."
And he does. His fingers make circles on Misfire's armor plating in a way that Misfire thinks is supposed to be soothing but just serves to work him up even more. He can feel his valve irising open and closed behind his panel, lubricant routines working double time to prepare him. By the time Grimlock's slow exploration reaches the edge of his array panel, Misfire feels like every pleasure receptor in his frame is awake and at full alert, ready for anything.
It certainly doesn't help him feel more relaxed. He really doesn't give a slag.
Grimlock rubs the edge of his thumb over the panel between Misfire's legs, his big hand cupping the space between Misfire's thighs, so huge it covers his entire valve cover and most of his aft. Misfire can't even fully process that Grimlock can hold his entire array in one hand.
His panel slides open and Grimlock makes an unbelievably satisfied sound. In a daze, Misfire realizes that by some miracle this isn't a pity frag at all — Grimlock's enjoying himself.
The thought fizzles into fractal pleasure as Grimlock rubs his fingers firmly over Misfire's lubricant-soaked valve.
Misfire arches into the touch, a burning line of heat racing up his spinal strut. Grimlock's fingers are huge and inescapable. Two of them are nearly enough to cover his entire valve, the sensory contacts on the tips connecting with his external nodes to generate bright, coppery licks of pleasure.
It's sweet and hot and Misfire is having a lot of trouble staying quiet.
"Good?" Grimlock asks, his chin resting against the top of Misfire's shoulder.
"Amazing," Misfire says earnestly. He shifts his leg, getting a foot braced on the berth, and levers himself back and forth in time with Grimlock's petting. Misfire's usually fast and frantic when he self-services, so the change in pace is devastating to his charge, which threatens to peak and burst at any moment. He seizes Grimlock's wrist and says, "Wait, wait."
Grimlock's hand stills immediately. Misfire squirms around and presses his thighs together, trapping Grimlock's wrist between them in the process. This isn't how he wants to go, in under thirty seconds, his valve empty and Grimlock left with nothing to show for it but a damp hand.
"Too much?" Grimlock prompts.
"Fast," Misfire admits with a curl of embarrassment. "Gonna blow if you keep it up."
There's a touch of amusement in Grimlock's voice. "Isn't that the point?"
"Wanna — " Misfire doesn't have the right words to be graceful about it. He just gropes carefully towards Grimlock's waist and holds his hand there. He hates how plaintive his voice sounds when he asks, "You wanna frag me, maybe?"
Grimlock runs his hand up the inside of Misfire's thigh and pushes them apart again. "You might not want me to."
What does that even mean — Misfire turns his face, expression creasing. "Not to be insensitive, but do you have barbs or spines or something? Because I'm sure otherwise, really."
"Mm," Grimlock says, "no," and then rolls onto his side and coaxes his panel open.
His spike doesn't pressurize at first, like maybe he has a hard time with it or he's shy or something. The aperture for his spike housing slowly spins open, the gap widening and then widening some more. Misfire touches the rim coaxingly. The tip is wet and gleaming already when it emerges, like Grimlock’s internal lubrication routines have been going crazy just from rubbing Misfire’s nodes.
Misfire doesn’t even need to see the whole thing to tell that it’s — big<. The kind of crazy big spike you see in bad holovid pornos, the kind where they’ve obviously either modded the spike or added some sort of attachment. But that looks like it’s all Grimlock — something he was forged with right from the start — the biolights on the underside of the gently curving shaft a warm ruby color, the contacts the same dull, warm, electrum-gold as his chassis.
He swallows. Right. Okay. Really big. Grimlock’s weird little statement makes a little more sense now.
Misfire’s a lot of things, most of them kind of slag, but what he’s not is afraid of Grimlock.
"Wow," he says, working up the courage to touch the thick head with his fingertips. It’s pretty much the same size all the way down — there’s no tapering whatsoever to ease the way. "Sure. I’m down."
Grimlock pushes himself upon his elbow, looking down at where Misfire is touching him. "Are you?"
"Yeah. Yeah — yeah, I — wow, I definitely am. Look at you." The longer he looks at it, the more he wants it inside him. He’s fairly sure it’ll fit — valves are pretty flexible if you unlatch a couple of your internal structural components against medical advice. Misfire’s calipers are already adjusting in anticipation of being absolutely packed, a gush of lubricant slicking his thighs. He’s going to be stuffed so tight. He should shut up and put his mouth on it or something before he ruins the mood, but he can’t help himself when he says, "I’m going to feel that in the morning for sure."
Grimlock, who still has his hand mostly against Misfire’s valve, notices and rubs his fingers in the mess. "You are."
Misfire can hear Grimlock's ventilations, which jolts him more than anything. For such a big mech, Grimlock always runs silent, a background purr only audible if everything else is completely quiet. It never is with Misfire around yammering on about something, and it isn't right now, so he's being extra noisy at the prospect of fragging Misfire.
He wonders if Grimlock knows how slagging hot that makes him feel. Probably not. He'll have to tell him later, when he isn't busy trying to get railed through the berth.
Grimlock gets to work, pushing the tip of one finger into Misfire's valve. The thick digit parts him easily, his calipers cinching down on the intrusion in order to maximize contact. Grimlock rocks back and forth, in and out of him, until Misfire's entire array is burning, until lubricant is soaking Grimlock's hand.
It's not quite enough to overload from, but it's definitely enough that Misfire feels like he's losing his mind a little. "Oh, Primus. You're going to kill me."
"Like this? Not likely," Grimlock counters and pushes a second finger inside.
That's substantially more of a stretch. Misfire's hips lift off the berth of their own accord and he makes a startled clicking noise, his vocal synthesizer popping with static. Grimlock presses his mask against Misfire's shoulder and makes slow inroads, parting Misfire with firm, confident strokes.
"Where," Misfire starts, swallows, tries again, "where did you learn how to do this?"
"Long time ago," Grimlock says. He shifts his body closer and pushes all the way in, burying his fingers to the knuckle in the clench of Misfire's slick mesh. "Not worth mentioning. This is much nicer."
That sends something spiraling through Misfire that has absolutely nothing to do with the way Grimlock is pumping his fingers in and out of Misfire's messy valve. His spark leaps and suddenly he wants more, holding on to Grimlock's shoulders with a grip so hard it might hurt if Grimlock wasn't so heavily armored.
"I'm ready," Misfire lies, but he wants Grimlock inside him so badly he's going to make it true.
Grimlock pushes a third finger into him, rough, spreading calipers mercilessly, and Misfire yelps. Grimlock doesn't have a mouth in root mode but he definitely still sounds like he's smirking when he asks, "Are you?"
"Yes!" Misfire yanks at Grimlock's collar insistently even as his hips come off the berth with the next thrust. "You're evil. You're a torturer. You're a bad mech."
Grimlock sounds so smug, "Want me to stop?"
"If you stop I'll scream," Misfire moans.
"If I don't stop, you're going to scream," Grimlock says, a puff of laughter chasing the teasing curl of his fingers. Misfire sees spots, his visual input swimming.
"Come on," Misfire cajoles, pulling at him insistently. He can't actually move Grimlock, but that makes it better when Grimlock moves for him. "I wanna feel you."
Grimlock's presence above him is nothing short of wonderful. He settles carefully over Misfire, aligning their frames, and lowers himself until they're just touching. Misfire fits in the shelter of his big chassis, surrounded by so much warm metal he can't decide what to touch first. He feels safer than he's ever felt in his life.
Misfire presses his mouth against Grimlock's chest, his lips parted in shock at the sudden sensation of Grimlock's spike easing into him. Grimlock's hand encircles his entire thigh, holding Misfire open, and it's only when Grimlock says, "Quiet, you'll wake the others," that Misfire comes back to himself enough to realize he's making any sound at all — sharp, desperate clicks, each one popping bright with static.
The walls are thin. He cuts his vocal synthesizer completely, curling his fingers into Grimlock's collar. His valve is on fire, stretched so taut around Grimlock's spike that he's getting an actual capacity alert. It'll fit, but that's about all he has room for. A thought spins up from low in his processor that if Grimlock wants to do this more than once, he's going to have to permanently reconfigure his valve defaults to be ready for taking a spike this large.
Misfire's never been so turned on by an idea in his life.
He scratches weakly at Grimlock's plating. Grimlock's weight won't even let him rock his hips. He's well and truly pinned. It makes heat flare through him.
Grimlock's spike taps the back of Misfire's valve, bottoming out, and then he grinds it slowly against Misfire's ceiling node like he’s trying to excavate the damn thing. Misfire feels like sparks are bursting behind his optics, a rainbow of errored out graphical glitches. His vocal synthesizer force reboots itself, but the only thing he has the processing capacity left to say is, "Please."
Grimlock holds him carefully and withdraws in one smooth, steady motion. Misfire nearly hates it, for how empty the retreat makes him feel, but the second thrust is faster, just a little harder, and he feels like he's been struck by lightning.
"Oh," Misfire says, dazed. Then, "Ah — !" and he cuts the feed again because the sound pitches up frantically, and the next noise out of him threatens to be a shout.
Grimlock hums low, rubbing his thumb along Misfire's inner thigh seam. "Relax."
Misfire wishes he had a retort for that, because he's trying. It's good, sensible advice, even if he's having trouble following it. He squirms just a bit, twitching around until he manages to brace himself better on Grimlock's chassis. From there, he moves just the couple of centimeters he's earned, rocking his hips back and forth.
It nearly makes him overload right there when Grimlock moans, just a few seconds of unmuffled reverb and deep, bassy rumble that’s more like a feeling than a sound.
"M'gonna," Misfire croaks as quietly as he can, which is not very quiet at all, "m'gonna ride your spike next time. Wanna so bad."
"Mmh," Grimlock says, running a hand over and over Misfire’s abdominal plating like he’s thinking about his spike jammed all up in there. "Yeah. Can do that." He shudders a little over Misfire. "You’re tight."
Misfire feels a slightly hysterical laugh bubbling up from his chassis at that, inappropriate, and manages to tamp it down to a slightly tinny sound, barely audible. "You’re big."
"You like it," Grimlock says and thrusts again, so hard that Misfire feels, almost ridiculously, like the top of his head is going to pop off. "You feel very good."
"We should do this every night," Misfire mumbles into Grimlock’s neck, slinging his arm around Grimlock’s huge, wide shoulders. He’s engulfed. It’s amazing. "Maybe in the mornings, too."
"Greedy," Grimlock says and then sticks his thumb into Misfire’s mouth. It tastes like his own lubricant and he sucks on it down to the knuckle, wrenching another, brighter sound from Grimlock, a fry of static that pitches down into a quiet moan. "Been thinking about you trying to suck my spike some."
He times the declaration with another slow thrust so Misfire’s processor goes absolutely haywire over it. He squeezes his legs around Grimlock’s waist — and it’s such a nice fragging waist, all heavily plated and nicely curved — and rocks his hips so that his calipers drag across the sensors on Grimlock’s spike. Misfire tongues the pad of Grimlock’s thumb and then swallows it down to the last knuckle, where it joins his palm, the tip of it grazing his fuel intake pipe before it retreats.
Misfire tips his head back, optics wide and unseeing. "Not gonna fit in my mouth."
"Pretty to see you struggle, though," Grimlock says, as if that isn't a wildly filthy thing to drop into a conversation, even if you're already housing deep in someone's valve.
Grimlock shifts his weight with a rumbling sound and pushes Misfire’s leg almost all the way up to his chest plate, folding Misfire neatly below him. At the angle, he has more leverage to thrust — and dear Primus does he get going.
It’s not quiet at all. Misfire can’t bring himself to care if the others hear him. Grimlock sets a rolling pace that makes him feel like his valve is about to burst into flame, hot from the sensors around the opening all the way to his ceiling node, his calipers gone slack and only spasming intermittently.
Grimlock palms Misfire's face, cupping it tenderly, and presses his own faceplate into the curve of Misfire's shoulder. Each powerful thrust rattles Misfire between Grimlock's hip and chin, his body held so tightly against Grimlock's frame that Misfire can nearly imagine the outpouring of heat fusing them together, a liquid, strut-melting charge burning through his lines, all of him full to bursting.
Misfire strains up and wraps his hand around Grimlock's lower back, holding them together, and Grimlock slows to low, grinding thrusts.
Pleasure builds and bursts through him, a dam bursting.
Misfire shoves his hand over his mouth but that does basically nothing to muffle the sound of his shouting. Grimlock is humming with electricity as he dumps enough charge to power a small shuttle directly into Misfire's ceiling node. A web of circuits in Misfire's body activates all at once, pleasure spreading in a flash like a constellation, an entire night's sky of light dancing in his optical field.
If he hadn't already been so close to his own overload, he's fairly sure Grimlock would have forced him into it. A wild, hysterical laugh tears itself from him and he thrashes and writhes, slapping hard, open-palmed at Grimlock's chest, while Grimlock rides him to completion, engine snarling once in an almost deafening rev.
Grimlock doesn't quite collapse on him when they're both through it, but he does sort of settle, putting some of his weight on Misfire. It feels incredible, a comforting weight, a powerful frame between his spread thighs, all his to touch.
Everything feels strangely silent outside their little bubble of strained ventilations, systems working at maximum capacity to cool them both. Misfire settles well before Grimlock does.
The silence is broken with a sudden, lascivious whistle from someone on the other side of the wall — Fulcrum he thinks — and a soft smattering of laughter follows it from all around.
"I'm springing for room on the opposite side of the building next time," Misfire groans, rubbing his hand across his face. He's only a little embarrassed. If they heard something they didn't want to, it's their fault for eavesdropping.
"Mm," Grimlock contributes, but he nuzzles his faceplate along Misfire's jaw. He feels a tingle of renewed interest, surprisingly. His valve, still stuffed full of Grimlock's spike, which hasn't flagged so much as a centimeter, clenches eagerly. "Wanna keep them up?"
"Oh, slag yeah," Misfire says and reaches for Grimlock, who's already pulling him closer, and he can't help but grin. The others are gonna be so slagged at them in the morning. Serves them right, really.